This weekend I say "I do" to your mama all over again. It's going to be a busy few days leading up to our vow renewal, and an even busier Saturday. So before I take a deep breath and dive into the mayhem that is bridezilla prep (Mason jars! Tea lights! More signs to paint!), I want you to know a few things.

First and most importantly, we love all three of you. Aerik, Alexis and Jackson, you are our light, our hope, our biggest dreams in compact form. You are the glue of this family, the bond that holds tight and reminds us of what's important in the tougher times. And yes, we all know there have been tougher times. Life isn't easy, and life in a transitioning family has its own unique challenges most of us aren't prepared for.

But you've all chosen to do something so simple, and yet not always achieved, even by those with far more life experience than you: You have actively chosen to put love first.

When the person you knew as your dad told you she was, in fact, your other mom, you all supported her without hesitation or question. Yes, you shed your tears and said goodbye the idea of having a father, but you also wholly embraced her. You rocked it.

No seriously. Guys, you totally rocked it.

The best kids I know and their favourite mom (right? right?!), July 2017.

That act of selfless love is precious and sadly, not always the reality. If you only knew how many families fall apart, how many children of all ages struggle for years when a parent transitions, you would see the significance. Emotions are complicated, but you've managed them with a grace I wish I could bottle and use in case of emergencies (I have many emergencies. Like right now, because the wedding is in FIVE DAYS and I don't have all my mason jars.).

I couldn't care less about school grades, but I do care about how my little humans treat other humans. And you, my loves, get an A+ in that department. You make me so proud to be one of your moms.

You've also allowed me to share parts of your lives with the world, despite knowing that privacy is not a genie you can put back in the bottle, and that you risk - and have received - judgment from our community and beyond. I've watched you all step boldly in front of microphones and cameras to tell society that love and acceptance of all people is important. That takes guts.

Your desire to make the planet a better place gives me hope for the future. Because you are the future.

The world is a frightening place right now. Just within the last few days, politicians are threatening nuclear war and alt-right bigots are spewing their hatred in large numbers in the country just south of us. We know that sentiment is growing within our own country too. It feels surreal to be planning a vow renewal with all of this going on, doesn't it? A little frivolous and laced with guilt. Don't think I haven't thought about about that.

Just one of many signs I'm going all Bridezilla on.

But I believe our family's story is more important than ever.The love you show - that we all show one another - is its own act of resistance. We're choosing to push forward and not let fear make our decisions or drive us underground.

We're choosing visibility, despite the risks. Because that display of unconditional love creates a connection with people who might not otherwise feel connected to families like ours. That connection turns into compassion, which is the fuel needed to learn about us. And the more people learn, the more they realize there's nothing to fear or hate, and they start standing beside us, rather than against us.

Connection, compassion and education. That is how we can do our part to push the darkness back into its little corner. That is our form of resistance. My darlings, we are the little queer family that could. And it has everything to do with you. Everything.

When we walk down the aisle in a few days, we're celebrating our family as it is today. It's been a long journey - one that isn't over - but it's taught all of us what's most important in life. Joy is at the top of that list, and we finally have a lot of that in our home, despite the scary, scary, big outside.

Aerik, thank you for agreeing to officiate our ceremony. I know you'll do an amazing job at marrying your moms. (But no pressure.)

Alexis, thank you for being our DJ. I can't wait to hear the music you've picked (PS: I hope it's not all dubstep.)

Jackson, thanks for being our ring bearer. (You have the easiest job, but don't tell your siblings or I'll put you on potluck cleanup duty.)

Thank you for loving your parents for who they are, a simple but indescribably meaningful act. Thanks for being a part of a life I never expected, but one I wouldn't trade for the world. You have two moms who love you very, very much. We can't wait to celebrate our family this weekend.

She woke me up yesterday while getting dressed for work. She was wearing the same dress she wore when we met the Prime Minister, and I’d argue it looks even better on her just over a year later. I watched from the bed, smiling, my hair rivaling Medusa’s on PMS week and my face puffy from sleep.

“How do I look?” my wife asked, twirling. She had thrown on a white jean jacket to compliment the dress. Her hair was up, with soft tendrils running down her cheeks. My breath caught in my chest. Beautiful. She looked beautiful.

Before she left, Zoe said something sassy – I can’t quite remember what, because I was still half asleep – and when I frowned at her dramatically, she stuffed a piece of dark chocolate in my mouth, kissed me, and headed to work.

I love this woman. I love everything about her. She’s smart, funny, supportive and can rock a dress in a way that fills me with both envy and pride. She’s the person I go to on my worst days because I know she’ll hug me like no one else. She’s the one who still thinks I’m pretty with my morning Medusa hair and serious lack of mascara (you will never find this look on my Instagram account). She knows nothing makes me happier than chocolate – even before I’m even out of bed.

To sum it up: She’s perfect for me. And I don’t understand why people would question that.

*****

We’ve been together for 24 years. For the first 22, I had no idea she was a woman. When Zoe finally worked up the courage to tell me, she was prepared to lose everything, including me. “This is your free pass,” she said in all sincerity. “I’ll understand if you don’t want to stay.”

I had my walking papers. I could head out the door without questions or animosity. But I didn’t want to.

There were some things I had to work through over the first few months, centering mostly around accepting the idea that I didn’t marry a man (surprise!), that our children don’t have a father (“It’s fine, having two moms is cool these days,” they’ve said to us a few times now), and that our family would no longer blend into suburbia as easily as it had before (“This is my wife” has elicited a few raised eyebrows so far). But staying felt right, and leaving felt wrong. Not out of some sense of obligation, but out of love.

Because when I think of my ideal partner, I think of her. So, I stayed, and we walked through the initial turmoil, the intense gender dysphoria she had early on, my overwhelming fears about what life had in store for us, the chronic stress of waiting for the transition services she desperately needed, the panic-inducing moments when she came out to key people – and then the world.

We held on. And one day, the sun came out again, and I realized holding on was the best thing I had ever done.

*****

The other day, I was on Twitter and saw this tweet from Dr. Ray Blanchard, a psychiatrist who studied sex for a lifetime, but has some very outdated and harmful views on the LGBTQ community he has no issues sharing.

Source (if you *really* want to read his stuff): https://twitter.com/blanchardphd?lang=en

Replying to it got me blocked within seconds (which is why I can’t link to it; feel free to go find it yourself). But I had to say something anyway because it gave me a serious case of the angries.

First of all, morning Medusa hair aside, I would not consider myself “unattractive.”

I've been looking for an excuse to use this photo forever. Thanks, Ray!

But far more importantly, this type of comment – from someone with scholarly clout, no less – serves no purpose. It’s not scientific. It’s not helpful. It’s just mean.

Unfortunately, there is a stigma surrounding trans people – centering heavily on trans women – that they are un-dateable and unlovable. Sadly, this plays out in the lives of many people I know who are overlooked on the dating scene altogether or cast aside the minute they tell a prospective partner they’re trans. There are some good articles (like this one) from trans writers about how challenging (and dangerous) it is out there for them.

All I could think about when I read that tweet was how someone feeling lonely and hopeless might react to it. I felt sick just thinking about it. So, I sent this out into the twitterverse to hopefully counter some of that negativity.

I meant all 140 characters. And so much more.

*****

What I want people to understand – truly understand, because I think this is the small way I can help push society forward – is that I didn’t stay with Zoe out of some sense of obligation. I’m not with her today simply because we’re married. People get divorced all the time, and for arguably much simpler reasons than a partner coming out.

I’m here because I want to be. Because she’s a great catch. A solid 10. And if I met her today, I would ask her out in a heartbeat and sweat bullets waiting for her to say yes. I’m lucky to have a woman like her love me so much (and feed me chocolate.) The fact that she's trans isn't even on my radar most days. It's a non-issue.

Trans folk who might be struggling today, maybe you don’t need me to tell you this, but I’m going to say it anyway: You are entirely loveable. You are so beautiful. You are resilient and wise and have much to give to the world. And I’m sorry if anyone has ever told you you’re not those things. They’re lying, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less, I’m sure.

I’m going to keep sharing our love story. I’m going to post more disgustingly adorable couple selfies on social media and I’m going to talk about how amazing my partner is. I’m going to share pictures of our vow renewal ceremony next month because any ceremony with two bridezillas is bound to be spectacular. I’m going to keep shouting from the rooftops how lucky I am to have Zoe in my life.

And hopefully, people who have these outdated ideas about what loving a trans person looks like will start to learn new ideas through our story and others like ours. Attitudes need to change. Because hope, love and joy should all be part of someone's transition.

And I feel bad about having a bad body day. Not only because I’m in the business of actively loving myself, but also because I regularly tout the idea of being who we are, in every way, without apology. This makes sense, since I’m a gay, plus-size, gym-loving, chip-eating, weight-lifting chick and I am okay with all of that – most of the time.

Yesterday just wasn’t most of the time, I guess.

Zoe and I are dress shopping for our 20th anniversary vow renewal in August. You would think I would be all over this. I’m excited to be saying “I do” to the woman of my dreams as the woman of my dreams, and not as the man she was trying so hard to be twenty years ago (the pretend man who was getting married to me, the woman who doesn’t dig dudes but spent most of her life trying to convince herself she did. There’s a movie in here, somewhere, you guys.)

We’re ordering our dresses online, which means we needed to take our measurements. I’ve been putting this uncomfortable task off without even realizing it was making me uncomfortable. “I’m busy.” "I’ll get to it later.” Yesterday, Zoe finally took out the fabric measuring tape and said, “Okay, let’s do this.”

So, we did it. And I didn’t exactly love the results.

Inches. Pounds. These are pieces of information about our bodies in relation to the rest of the world – nothing more. I know this. And yet, to many people – especially women – they are to be feared or celebrated, hated or lauded. How much you weigh or what your waist size is can bring about pride or shame. In most cases, it’s shame.

I thought I was pretty much done with the fear-y, hate-y, shame-y part of all that. The nonsense part. After all, hating my waist is a total waste. I’d much rather spend my time celebrating what my body can do, which is a whole lot since I started prioritizing my health a couple of years ago. I have energy to spare. I lift heavy at the gym. I can run up a flight of stairs without getting winded. I can chase my ten-year-old around the park and almost catch him. I can carry in multiple grocery bags from the car without throwing my back out. I am strength and power and health, and 99% of the time, I am damn proud of this.

But when we took those measurements, I wanted to cry. And then I wanted to cry because I wanted to cry. I felt incredible shame in that reaction. How could I get so far ahead in the loving myself game only to fall apart because of what a dollar store measuring tape tells me? Why did this happen?

Because I am conditioned to hate my body, that’s why. As a woman, I have been the recipient – and, I would strongly argue, the victim – of messaging that tells me I am not good enough, will never be good enough, and will never have a body worthy of love.

My body has been systematically pulled apart by marketers aiming to make me spend in the hopes of finding inner peace.

“Jeans to hide every imperfection!” on the cover of a magazine tells me my body is imperfect to begin with.

“The revolutionary plan to help you lose that stubborn belly fat!” tells me the fat on my belly is bad and that I should be aiming to lose it.

“Learn to be confident at any size!” automatically centers size as something that should make me uncomfortable – but maybe not with the right jeans and less belly fat.

Only seeing one specific body type in lead roles on TV and in movies. Only a handful of stores for plus-size women. Having to advertise if you’re a larger body type on dating sites so you don’t “trick” anyone with a flattering photo. Getting disapproving looks at the grocery store if your cart has chips in it. Getting “Good for you!” when you work out, instead of being treated like everyone else who exercise. The list goes on and on.

Having a bigger body means you are told, repeatedly, every day, that you are not enough as you are. That there is something wrong with you, and that it is your fault. If you just tried harder, ate less, moved more, had some willpower, you could stop doing this to yourself.

I battle these messages daily. And most of the time, I’m pretty good at ignoring them. I’ve come a long way to acceptance. But every now and then, I, too, am vulnerable to that messaging. Yesterday, likely for a variety of factors, was one of those days. When I saw those numbers, and looked at the sizing charts online, I started to fell less than.

Gym day, three times per week. Usually early and slightly grouchy, but always worth it.

Thank goodness for my wife. My incredible Zoe, who struggles with the messaging she receives as a trans woman, was quick to notice my reaction to the numbers. She wrapped me up in the biggest hug. “You’re going to look gorgeous on our wedding day, sweetie. You are so beautiful. Remember that. Numbers don’t define you.”

She says this with much authority, because the world tells her she is not a real woman: she is a man “pretending” to be a woman, or a woman who “used to be a man”. That is simply untrue, of course, as she’s every bit as much of a woman as I am. Her battles are bigger than mine; they threaten her very identity and place in society in dangerous ways. But that active struggle to stop feeling less than? That’s something we have in common, which makes her a giver of excellent pep talks.

Love is an action, and therefore, loving myself is an active process. This is why I needn’t feel bad that those numbers almost made me cry. It happens. Loving, like running or sleeping, is harder on some days than others, and yesterday was a harder day. Thank goodness I had someone by my side who gets it. We all need a someone like that.

But the hard work, the internal work, has to come from me. I have to choose to actively love myself, even on the hardest days. I have to choose to fight against the messaging and run towards myself with open arms. That's what I have to do, and that's what I'll keep on doing.

Today? Today I’m back to seeing the numbers for exactly what they are: measurements of my body in relation to the rest of the world, and certainly not measurements of my beauty or self-worth. I bounce back a lot faster these days. That is active self-love.

And I think I’ve found my dress, you guys. It’s adorbs!

And I know, for sure, I’ve found the woman I’m excited to spend another twenty years with. When I struggle to love myself, she helps me remember how worthy I am. You don't get better than that, and I can't wait to walk down the aisle all over again.

With the greatest love and respect for everyone in the community who has helped my family along in this journey, I share it on my blog.

June 19, 2017

We, the parents and caregivers of the Canadian Parents of Trans and Gender Diverse Kids/Parents canadiens d’enfants trans group, wish to publicly thank the transgender and two-spirit community for their invaluable work in helping our children receive Federal rights and protections through Bill C-16.

Thank you for the many years you have fought for trans rights in Canada. We know how little support you received and how few allies you had early on, and yet you kept pushing for what was right. Because of you, people started listening, momentum grew for this important cause, and our children will now grow up in a better world.

However, this is not all we wish to thank you for.

Because of you, we knew what to do when our children came out to us. We had examples from older trans and non-binary people to learn from, a guideline to best support our children. We had books to read, blogs to follow, and people who selflessly mentored and guided our families. We were able to learn how to best support our kids through your examples, and how to fight for their rights in our communities and beyond.

Because of you, there was a framework of rights and procedures to follow in many of our provinces. Some of our schoolboards had guidelines or policies in place to support our children, and many educators had already received training. Many of our children’s hospitals and other pediatric facilities across the country have gender clinics in place to assist our youth in getting medical support from an early age.

Because of you, our children have diverse, dynamic and powerful role models to look up to. Seeing themselves visibly represented in all walks of life provides them with hope for a brighter future.

Because of you, society is becoming increasingly informed and more inclusive of our trans and gender diverse children. While many of our kids still face discrimination, it is often a far cry from what they might have faced years ago, before all the work you have done to make things safer.

The passing into law of Bill C-16 is a historic moment for everyone in the trans community, a culmination of years of work from people who stood tall until the country took notice. It is through your perseverance and resilience that our children not only have these rights today, but an entire framework in place to lead wonderful, authentic lives.

Thank you from all of us, from families all over the country, for everything you have done. We are committed to listening to, learning from, and working alongside you to improve the lives of trans, two-spirit and gender diverse people in Canada.

Sincerely,

The parents and caregivers of Canadian Parents of Trans and Gender Diverse Kids/Parents canadiens d’enfants trans

I feel like I've been holding my breath for a long three-and-a-half years, since my first family member came out as trans. Today, I finally let it out - along with a few tears.

The vote so many of us have been waiting for happened today. I was there, hands shaking, heart pounding, sitting in the visitor's gallery, hanging on every word from the Senate floor below.

67 members of the Senate of Canada voted in favour of Bill C-16, the trans rights bill. 11 voted against, and 3 abstained. When the vote was done, those who voted "yes" turned to the gallery, where many trans people and their loved one were seated, and broke out in smiles and applause.

It was done.In a powerful show of support from the Senate, protections for trans people will now be added to the Charter of Rights and Freedoms and to the Criminal Code. This is a historic day.

Many people in the gallery cheered and clapped at the news. They were initially hushed by security - because making any noise up there is a serious no-no - but it didn't take long to see that was a lost cause. There were too many folks there who had spent years fighting for this moment, and they weren't going to be quiet about it.

Many people shook the hand of Justice Minister Jody Wilson-Raybould, who sat among us to watch this historic moment. That's what you do when the Justice Minister is spending time with you in parliament. You act professional, you smile, and you shake her hand. It's a happy day, after all, and she, along with some dedicated MPs and senators, had seen that bill through to the end.

Meanwhile, while everyone was busy being joyous and shaking hands, I burst into tears.

Because I had been holding my breath for three-and-a-half years, not wanting to hope for this moment, in case this bill died on the floor like others of its ilk before it. I didn't want to hope so hard, just to have that hope dashed. I didn't want to believe the ladies I love, my brave and beautiful wife and daughter, both out and proud trans women, might finally have the rights all Canadians deserve.

So when the bill passed - when the Senate turned towards us and clapped and I realized this was truly happening - I cried, ok? I did. Don't judge.

Here's the thing: Zoe and Alexis are strong, capable women. They're smart and resilient and can get through anything. Hell, just having the courage to come out and live as their true selves speaks volumes about that. But I'd be lying if I said I haven't been intensely protective of them.

I know what society can be like for trans people; I work closely with the community, I listen to their stories, I know what they're up against. Even though the provinces have stepped up and implemented their own laws, the fact that there were no protections at the federal level felt... heavy. For everyone. For trans people, especially, and for their loved ones.

The truth is, every time I'm out with Alexis or Zoe, I'm on guard. I'm looking for the people who might give them a hard time. I'm looking for the stares or disapproving frowns that could lead to something worse. I'm looking for trouble.

Each time they leave the house without me, I worry a little. I hope they're safe. I hope nobody gives them a hard time. Because I know harassment happens. Assault happens. Murder happens. Hate crimes happen. This is the reality of being transgender. I'm a member of the greater LGBTQ community, and I have to worry about that, too. But not like they do.

Will a federal law fully protect them against all of those things? No, of course not. If laws were all it took to stop harassment, assault and murder, we'd have a very peaceful society. But they do send a message. When the federal government says, "We have laws protecting gender identity and expression," it sets the tone for the entire country. It further strengthens the resolve of provinces that are supportive of trans people, and it encourages those dragging behind to hurry and catch up. It reminds those who hate that they can't hate openly. You can't let your bigotry out to play here, buddy.

When that vote happened today, I cried because I felt a weight being lifted. My country, the country I am proud to call home, now fully recognizes, supports and protects my family as it is today: A family with two moms and three kids, with two trans people and three family members who love those trans people exactly as they are. My family. My diverse and very special family.

The Knox Family, 2016

So when the Minister came my way, I was in full-blown happy tears. Not my most professional LGBTQ advocate moment, but those tears were earned, ok? She took one look at me and didn't shake my hand. Instead, she hugged me. "Thank you from my family," I managed to say to her.

And one after another, many of the amazing members of the trans community who were in that gallery followed her lead, and hugged me, too. Like, so many hugs. So much love. This, of course, just made me cry more. Thanks a lot for ruining my eye makeup, everybody.

The community has worked hard for this moment. Some of them have been fighting for this day for years. Sure, the parents and partners helped. But the older trans generation taught us parents how to support our children, and taught us partners how to love another person through transition.

Some of us, in turn, have been able to use our families' stories to push this bill forward alongside the community. Parliamentary allies like MP Randall Garrison and Senator Grant Mitchell helped immensely. Together, we had more voices, added more pressure, and saw bigger results.

But they did this, the trans community did this, and this is their day.

We still have work to do. Laws are important, but lasting change happens through education, one person at a time. There are many people out there who still don't understand. And so I'm nowhere near done telling our family's story. We're nowhere near done normalizing queer families.

We found a mass. We made a painful decision. We shed some tears – many of them. We had a picnic and fed him cheeseburgers. And then we took him to the vet and said our farewells to an incredible family member, who stayed with us through so many changes, so many storms.

And we swore the loss was simply too big, too deep, to welcome another furry friend into our hearts anytime soon. Besides, no other dog could come close to Shadow (or to our beloved Taylor, who is now 14 and has slowed down in every way but sweetness.) Why bring in another animal who had such impossible standards to live up to?

No, better not to try. It wouldn’t be fair.

But let me tell you: anyone who thinks that’s the end of it has not come up against the will of a 10-year-old boy.

It’s been a hard year for Jackson. While I share a lot about Alexis living life as a girl who is trans, I don’t often speak about Jackson’s struggles. Maybe, in comparison, they don’t seem as big. But that doesn’t make his struggles easier for him.

A couple of months ago, Jackson was diagnosed with ADHD. With that diagnosis brings the support and treatments he needs - finally. It’s a late diagnosis, and probably one we could have made sooner. However, all of his symptoms could have been the result of many things, including coming to terms with both his sister’s and his other mom’s transitions. Even though he’s been nothing but supportive over the last three years, it doesn’t mean it’s always been easy. Kids deal with things in different ways, and we wanted to make sure the challenges he was having weren’t simply a reaction to the changes in his life.

They aren’t, and with the right support, things are getting better for him. This school year, however, was still a massive struggle. It wore him down. And Shadow's loss was tougher on him than I imagined it would be.

This is why, I suppose, he started pushing so hard for a new dog.

“It’s too soon,” I said.

“Not for me,” he replied.

I found a “petetion” on the dining room table. “For a new dog” it said, and it had room for 50 signatures. His was the first at the top. My heart melted a little. I left it out for others to sign.

“I’m busier now,” I explained the next time he brought it up. “My job doesn’t leave me a lot of room to care for a new dog.”

“But I’m older now,” he retorted. “I can help. I will help. I promise.”

Flashbacks to the hamster he had me buy when he was six. He cleaned the cage once. I did it for the rest of Nibbler’s short life.

I started finding browser windows open, where he had researched different types of dogs. Cute, but I still wasn’t buying in.

“I found a great dog!” he said to me one morning last week. “He’s a year old, he’s a husky, and he’s available at the SPCA of Western Quebec!” (Which is only a half-hour away.)

He whipped out his phone and showed me pictures. Admittedly, the dog was cute. But I wasn’t sold on getting another dog. None of us were. So he sat us all down before breakfast and pitched his best game.

“Look,” he said. “I need a dog, okay? I love Taylor, but she doesn’t run around anymore. I need one to play with, to wear off energy with. None of you have the same energy levels I do and it’s hard for me.”

I opened my mouth to counter his argument. He stopped me.

“Remember how Shadow helped Alexis through a tough time? I need a special pet to help me right now. It would be good for my emotional wellbeing.”

Emotional wellbeing. Smart kid. Maybe too smart. We should have fed him more processed food in the formative years.

And that is how our family ended up at the shelter that afternoon, taking dog after dog out for a walk. The husky Jackson had his eye on wasn’t available, so we asked to see other animals who might be a good fit for us. We let Jackson tell them what he needed: a medium to large size dog, not too old, good with kids, cats and other dogs, who loves to play and cuddle. No small order.

“Go get Blue for them,” one of the staff said. “We all love Blue. He’s a big suck.”

According to Blue’s papers, he originates from a shelter in New York City and made his way up to Canada, although I don’t know all the specifics of that journey. He’s 18 months old and 60 pounds. His documentation says he’s a Chocolate Lab mixed with a Great Dane. I think there’s some other stuff mixed in there, too, but who cares? Mutts are cool little mysteries, and are often the very best dogs.

Blue also spent time with a foster family that had an eight-year-old boy, and they had been peas in a pod while he was there. This bode well for Jackson’s dream of a best friend.

“Is this the right dog for us?” I asked the kids. It was practically rhetorical. We knew the answer.

Or most of us knew, anyway. We brought Blue home Wednesday night. He was hyper, tearing around the place, knocking stuff over, unable to settle down. I suppose, when you’ve been moved from place to place, from person to person, from country to country, unsure of what’s happening next, it’s hard to calm that anxiety in a few short hours.

Alexis had her doubts we had made the right choice. “I don’t know, mom. He’s pretty wild. I’m not feeling it just yet. Maybe it’s too soon since Shadow died and I can’t connect with another dog. I just don’t know.”

The next morning, Blue had calmed down. I greeted him with his harness and an early morning walk. He heeled the entire time, walking proudly beside me, greeting other people and their dogs with quiet confidence. He licked my face to thank me when we got home, and jumped back up on Jackson’s bed to fall asleep again.

By that evening, Alexis sat on the couch with a sleeping Blue next to her. “I take it back," she grinned fondly. "He’s not Shadow, he’ll never be Shadow. But he’s Blue. And Blue is great.”

Blue is great. He and Jackson are the best of friends. We take him for walks and he waits patiently by the swings while his human BFF takes a turn. They play tag, fetch, and have water fights. When Jackson comes home from school, Blue meets him at the door with his favourite ball.

And at night, Blue crawls onto his little buddy’s bed sleepily, and they pass out together after hours of fun.

Shadow was the dog Alexis needed. Blue is the dog Jackson needed.

But I needed Blue, too. I just didn’t know it. I love our early morning walks in the park and our cuddles on the couch in the evening. I love the joy on his face when I walk in the door, and the grin he gives me when I agree to play with his disgusting, completely mauled, falling apart ball in the backyard.

However, I especially love how Blue has helped me remember an important lesson: Change is hard, especially of the loss variety, but life always brings us something new. Blue is our new. And with him, we are feeling far less blue by the day. You can’t ever replace a person or pet you’ve lost. But love is bountiful, and it can wrap itself around new relationships in the aftermath, if we allow it.

Two nights ago, as I was sitting on the couch with both my not-so-little lapdog and my actually little lapdog, I overheard Jackson say to his friend, “If it weren’t for me, Blue wouldn’t be here. I made a good case for him, including how he’d be good for my emotional wellbeing. And that’s how we got this great dog.”

I smiled and looked down at the giant sleeping head on my lap. I felt my heart grow a little bigger.

Thanks for being wonderfully manipulative, kid. Blue and I owe you one.

We said goodbye to our dog today.

He left this world late this afternoon, surrounded by the people who loved him. I'm heartbroken.

But before I sink into the couch with a hot tea and box of tissues, I need to tell the story of what he did for our family. Because Shadow wasn't just any dog. He came into our family when we needed him, loved us at our worst, and left us only once the storm had passed.

The first time I met Shadow, I walked into a house and he came running for me. "Who's this?" I yelled excitedly, immediately getting down on my knees to greet him. He flopped into my arms like he already owned me. As it turns out, he did.

Shadow was an American Cocker Spaniel, larger than most of his breed, but with all the lovely characteristics like big floppy ears and a teddy bear face. His eyes were a rich honey brown, and when he looked at you, you were the only thing that mattered in his world. I fell in love immediately.

He was just around three years old, and had already lived in as many homes. Shadow had a wetting problem, unable to differentiate between inside and outside when it came to marking his territory. This, of course, made things challenging for him and anyone he shared a house with. I very quickly decided we needed to be his forever home, and made a phone call to my partner to make sure that was okay.

It was weirdly spontaneous; I don't make decisions that quickly, especially when it comes to pets. But I knew the minute I met Shadow that he was special. So he jumped into the car with me, his beaming face poking out the passenger side window. I surprised some really happy kids with a new family member when they got home from school. And my spouse, who was never that fond of dogs, was instantly smitten.

It took us a year to gently train our new friend to only pee outside. The vets said it was likely impossible at his age to do so. But with persistence (and way too many diapers), he learned, and spent the rest of his doggy life accident-free.

I don't know Shadow's full history, if anyone reprimanded him harshly before he came to us, but I do know he suffered from nightmares for a lifetime. Several times a week, he would howl in his sleep like someone was hurting him, and whoever was closest would go to him and soothe him back into a restful state. "It's okay, Shadow," we would say. "You're safe. It's okay."

Sounds great, right? This family gives a dog a home, accepts him with all his little imperfections, and loves him for nearly a decade. A perfect story on its own. But that's only half the story. Because what Shadow did for us eclipses that completely.

Our daughter came out as transgender in 2014. She was in grade 6 when that happened, and her classmates, not fully understanding, turned away from her. She struggled socially and emotionally, coming home every day feeling defeated and alone.

But Shadow would greet her at the door. He would wag his cropped Cocker tail and look up at her with his honey brown eyes. Every day, she would drop her bag, pull off her shoes, and give him a much-needed hug. She had not a friend in the world, save one. He was the glue that held her together at a time when she had never felt so broken. He spent nearly every night asleep on her bed, and rarely left her side when she was home. It's as if he knew she needed him most of all.

When my wife came out as trans the following year, she spent the first few months living "part-time," meaning she was out at home, but not at work. It was a painful time for her, spending hours every day being called a name and pronouns that didn't match her. She would come home exhausted from pretending each day. She would breathe a deep sigh of relief, knowing she was in a safe place where she could be herself. Shadow would often be the first to greet her, happy to see a person he loved, and nothing more.He was the bridge between two worlds: the one she was forced to be in, and the one she wanted to be in all the time.

When I fell into a depression in late 2015, feeling unable to navigate all the changes under our roof, worried about my marriage falling apart, worried about my family collapsing under the weight of the world, worried about the cruelty of humanity towards the people I love most, Shadow was a constant confidante. He would sit with me, his head on my lap and a paw on my knee, and I would mimic his deep, calm breaths as he slept. "Keep breathing," I would remind myself. "It's okay. Keep breathing."

Shadow didn't know judgment. He didn't care about gender. He didn't fear change. He just gave us his unconditional, unrelenting love. On good days, on bad days, throughout the biggest storm our family had endured, he was a beacon, a life raft, hope. He was mindfulness, he was playfulness, he was joyfulness. He was so much of what a person needs when they're struggling, and he gave it all to us freely, as only a dog can.

And then, when the storm had passed, when the clouds went away and the sun came out again, when my daughter was back in school with new friends and my wife was out at work without issues, when the smile returned to my face, he left us.

Not right away, thankfully. He gave us another year of his love. But then he got sick, and the prognosis was the worst imaginable. We got the news yesterday, and brought him home for the night with medication to keep him as comfortable as possible.

Our eldest came back late last night from his girlfriend's place after hearing the news. We kept the two younger kids home from school today. My wife and I gave a presentation over lunch about the very family our dog helped hold together, and came back right away. It would be our last afternoon with our favourite Spaniel.

Shadow was tired, sick, but still excited to see his leash. He was always excited to see his leash. Walks were his favourite thing.

We took both the dogs to the park, our little terrier mix, Taylor, skipping along happily, with Shadow walking more slowly behind. We found a quiet place by some trees and laid out a blanket.

It was warm today. Not so hot that a black dog would need to seek shade, but just perfect for an old man catching some final rays.

We took some final pictures, and told him all the things we love most about him.

His hugs.

His smiles.

His support.

But mostly, his unwavering love.

And when we were done, we took him to the clinic, into a dark and cozy room, and we sat on the floor all around him, with tears running down our cheeks, until he took his last breath.

Now we're home. And I am heartbroken. But before I go have myself another cry or five, I wanted to honour Shadow, the dog who stayed through the storm. Not only because of how special he was - although, yes, he was indescribably special - but also because this wonderful canine can teach us a few things about humanity that humans still haven't entirely figured out. Namely:

Love your humans unconditionally.

Run towards change when it greets you at the door.

The storm will pass, but it's good to have someone with you while it rages.

Oh, and if you lose your favourite orange ball, it's probably under the couch.

Yes, I’m one of those people. The ones who have an abnormally high level of excellent comedians among their ranks.

So, you might think, given my “lifestyle choices,” I would be writing this piece to explain why everyone should support same-sex marriage. But you would be wrong.

Because the longer I’m a part of the gay agenda, the more problems I find with it.

Oh, not the usual stuff people complain about, like the crumbling sanctity of traditional something-or-others, or that thing God apparently said that one time. Honestly, unless God comes down from the sky Himself and tells me I won’t be joining Him in up there because I happen to like Taco Tuesday, I’m not going to give that much thought.

But the thing is, there’s a whole lot of other stuff in same-sex partnerships that isn’t talked about. So today, I’m going to bust the closet door open on those – something my people are pretty good at, incidentally – and reveal the real problems in gay marriage. The conflicts. The struggles.

These four points are things I’ve experienced in my own life of strife with my wife. I urge you to seriously consider where this path of sin leads. Don’t make the same mistake I’ve made.

1. We’re still in the closet. Way too much.

Traditional homes are meant for traditional families: A mom, a dad, and two kids. A boy and girl. Named Asher and Madison. Both are straight A students and well-adjusted because they have hetero parents.

These homes are meant for them. They are certainly not meant for two femmes trying to share a master bedroom.

Femmes are queer women who lean towards a more feminine style of dress. Unfortunately, that descriptor fits both me and my wife. Super big problem. We both love expressing our womanhood through cute outfits, jewelry, shoes, handbags, and all that other stuff lesbians have no business putting on their bodies.

But we do it anyway, because we’re difficult and we like to throw the normies off.

Sadly, being difficult like that creates difficulties in our bedroom; specifically, in our one, tiny walk-in closet. The closet runneth over with shoeseths and dresseths and way too many other types of eths. It’s a mess… eth.

What’s society going to do? Build houses that have more closet space just so a few femme couples can enjoy sharing a room without passive-aggressively kicking their partners’ crap aside to make space for new ankle boots?

No. That’s not fair to Asher's and Madison’s parents, who might not know what to do with that kind of space. It’s pretty simple: people like us just shouldn’t be living together.

2. Sometimes I have to kill the wasp.

You know, the big one that flies in through the patio door because the kids didn’t bother to close the damn thing like I’ve asked them to fifty times.

Or the giant gross beetle in the basement. Or the fucking spider next to the bed.

Why am I killing these things? Because I’m “closer.” Yeah. None of this automatically defaults to anyone else because of their gender. There are no bug killers in my marriage with hunter DNA from years of ancestors dragging carcasses back to the cave and grunting over the fire while picking lice out of their beards. And it sucks. Bigtime.

“Women can kill these things too,” you say? Yeah, I know we can. I’m not sexist, okay? The fact that I can kill these things is not the point. The point is, if I had any reason, stereotypical or otherwise, to get my spouse to do it instead, I would. Who wants to make a wasp angry and risk getting stung? Who wants to smush a spider with sharp little spider-y teeth?

No one, that’s who.

But if I had a husband, I would make this his role and use “tradition roles” as the reason for it. At this point in my life, I would even write it into the vows. “To love and honour and kill all the fucking spiders so they don’t bite my wife in the face while she’s sleeping.” That’s what he would say to me before he could put a ring on it.

Sadly, I really like taco Tuesday. Like, a lot. Because of this, I must kill (or nicely put outside, if it’s not winter and/or the kids are watching) anything in my home near my person that moves and doesn’t have a name. That’s what you get for breaking the rules, Amanda. Way to go.

Traditional bug-killing roles get thrown out the window when you’re gay married. Why is this not on any anti-gay-marriage websites so people can get behind the cause? I don’t know. People aren’t thinking big picture, I guess.

3. You can dress us up, but—actually, sometimes you can’t.

“Honey, can you wear the red tie? It’ll match with my dress.”

“Okay, no problem.”

That’s how Asher’s and Madison’s parents figure out what to wear when they’re heading out on fancy date nights. She picks an outfit, he grabs a matching tie. This keeps their marriage intact. Then Asher and Madison are less likely to go through the struggles of a family divorce.

When my wife and I go out, we change outfits three or four times, often with great frustration.

We want to look like a couple.

But not like twins because that would be weird.

But not like roommates who don’t worry about clashing.

And not like people who don’t live together or talk about what they’re wearing, either.

And she can’t wear an exceptionally nice dress while I wear leggings and a tunic, see, because then I look like a slob. And I can’t have my hair done up like a starlet if she’s not going to do the same.

Two ladies going out as a couple? That’s unnatural. You don’t need to read the bible to find that out. If you want real proof, just look at our exasperated faces when we finally arrive at our destination, late, out of breath, and barely speak to each other.

Also, sometimes she steals my scarves. Just saying.

If we could just get married to dudes like normal women, we wouldn’t have this problem. This is the price I’ve paid for sin.

4. It confuses children. Well, my children.

Oh, sure, there are plenty of studies that show how much kids thrive in same-sex households. They all point to unimportant things, like the amount of support and attention these kids get growing up, positive mental health outcomes, higher IQ levels… Just stupid stuff.

Never mind the kids. This is about me.

Mainly, how I must compete for the title of “best mom” for the rest of my life, and how completely unfair that is for everyone involved. Especially me. The important one.

First, do you know what happens when there are two moms raising kids? It’s like the Hunger Games. A child comes into your life and you’re suddenly running for the cornucopia, scooping up whatever you can find: internet recipes, craft ideas, annoying children’s songs and memorable vacation plans. You do this in the hopes of being the winner: the recipient of the “Best Mom Ever” card on Mother’s Day (which, in our household, is “Mothers’ Day” because there are two of us. *Eye roll*)

And then, do you know what happens? You both get a card that says, “Best Mom Ever.”

Both of you! Even though that is not physically possible. You can’t both be the best at something. This isn’t a participation medal, kids. This is the parenting Olympics, and only one of us can get the gold.

This speaks to the confusion of children raised by same-sex couples. Well, it speaks to my children’s confusion, anyway. It’s obvious I’m the best mom.

I mean, sure, I yell more and Zoe makes better food than I do. And she does their laundry. And stays home with them in the evenings more than I do. And lets them pick the movie on movie night instead of insisting on one she “really wants to watch and it’s my turn to pick, so suck it up.”

But I’m the best in other ways I won’t go into because the list is so long and I don’t want to bore you, so you’re welcome.

You know who doesn’t ever have to worry about being “Second Best Mom Ever”? Asher’s and Madison’s mom, that’s who. She could parade around the house in her granny undies while they have friends over and she’d still win the competition because there’s no one to steal her title. Uncontested. She doesn’t even need to let them pick the movie.

It’s fine. Whatever. I’m over it.

*****

Anyway, I hope you found this list as compelling as I have. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to hand out ice cream bars to the kids before my wife gets home.

You know, my gorgeous wife. With the cute dresses and that gorgeous smile...

I’m Amanda, a writer, speaker and human rights advocate. I’ve been married to the love of my life, Zoe, a high tech professional, for nearly 20 years.

In many ways, we are a typical Canadian family. We have three children, own a home in the suburbs of Ottawa, talk gardening with the neighbours, embarrass our children in front of their friends, and do a lot of volunteer work within our community.

We’re almost boring. They write background characters based on people like us.

But it’s what has happened within our family that makes us stand out. We have two transgender family members who have both started their transitions in the last three years. Our journey has been empowering, heart-wrenching, frightening, educational, and surprisingly magical. It has changed me completely.

It is my goal to introduce you to us as we are today, and urge you to think of our family as you make critical decisions in the Senate that will impact the people I love most.

Stay with me. I promise you won’t regret it.

Up until three years ago, I thought I had a husband and three sons. I was wrong. And as that narrative unravelled, as authenticity bloomed within these four suburban walls, I would gain new insights I hope to leave you with as you make your decisions regarding the validity of trans experiences, and the importance of their rights.

In 2014, our middle child, a child I knew as my son, sent us a life-changing email. “I am a girl trapped in a boy’s body,” the letter said in her best 11-year-old language. “More than anything, I need to be a girl. Please try to understand. Please don’t be angry. Please help me.”

She sent this desperate plea from her room, terrified of the repercussions, but knowing she had no choice. After years of internal turmoil, coming out was the only option left if she wanted to live.

Our daughter, Alexis, 2015

This is a hard thing to internalize as a parent, to know your child was that close to taking her own life, and that your actions, from this moment on, can make or break this vulnerable little human. I felt the weight of it all, and I was afraid.

I knew nothing of transgender issues when Alexis came out to us. Not a thing. Anything I had heard about trans people was steeped in ignorance. It was never from the trans community itself, but rather from people like me, with no direct experience and plenty of opinions.

It was from friends who read about a trans person in the news. It was from an anecdote-turned-joke about a co-worker who wears wigs at home. It was from old movies, where trans characters were portrayed as incredibly unstable, and often with malicious intent.

And yet here was my child – my child, who I grew, carried, birthed, nursed and rocked to sleep, someone I know and love more than life itself – telling me she is she. She was anything but unstable, anything but malicious.

I did what a parent should do and loved her through it. While current research tells us this was the right thing to do for her, it was not an entirely selfless act. I didn’t want to lose my child. And when I read about the obstacles facing trans youth, a lack of safety and support were the biggest ones. Trans children who are not supported in their transition are eight times more likely to attempt suicide. Those are the statistics, and we did not want our daughter to be a statistic.

I’m glad I listened and learned. Because the following year, the person I had known for nearly 20 years as my husband, told me she is, in fact, my wife. It was the most terrifying and honest conversation we had ever had. We chose to love each other through this change, too. And I have no regrets.

There is now a juxtaposition within the walls of our little suburban home. A learning experience we openly share with the world.

First, there is the child who was able to come out at 11 years old, receive much needed support from her family, friends and community, and thrive as a result. It is my hope and belief that Alexis is going to lead a very happy life as her true self, free the pain she would have faced had she remained closeted.

Then, there is my wife, who spent a lifetime fearing for her safety, her relationships, and her career, so she painfully hid her true self for over 40 years. When she did come out, it was because she could no longer live that way. But in doing so, she truly believed she would lose everything and put herself at great risk.

My wife's fears were valid. Trans people face an enormous amount of discrimination that can impact their happiness, their ability to earn an income, and their basic human right to safety.

There is lived experience, and then there are opinions of experiences we’ve never lived. Up until the makeup of my family changed, I had no lived experience in this area. Trans issues weren’t even in my periphery. They were something that happened to other people, not my people, so I didn’t have to worry about them. I didn't have to care very much.

Until, that is, this became all about my people. My incredible, brave, resilient people, who have taught just how much I didn’t know.

Zoe and Amanda, 2017

Today, my wife and I are planning to renew our vows for our 20th wedding anniversary in August. I love her more than I ever have, in part because authenticity looks beautiful on her.

Our daughter is a typical grade 9 student, staying up too late and barely getting those English essays in on time. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t take a moment to appreciate how delightfully typical her life is.

Much of my family's happiness has to do with how much we've moved forward as a society. But we still have a long way to go.

When we know better, we do better. That’s how progress is made, whether inside a mother’s heart, inside a marriage, inside a home’s four walls, or inside Parliament.

Senators, as a mother, partner, advocate, educator, and Canadian citizen with a fresh perspective on trans issues, I urge you to help me keep my family safe. Please listen to what families like mine are saying, and turn Bill C-16 into law.

You can help my daughter continue to thrive for a lifetime.

You can help my wife live a truly happy life after years spent hiding.

You can help me sleep better at night, knowing my country sees them, hears them, and cares for them.

On May 1, 1993, I met the woman of my dreams at a party.

This was a party I worked embarrassingly hard at getting myself invited to. It was a birthday for someone I didn't know very well and, by all accounts, I really had no business being there. But I was 16, lots of people I knew would be in attendance, and I desperately needed the night out.

And did I mention I was 16 and it was a party? Yeah.

A few weeks before, I had been unceremoniously dumped by my boyfriend. I even got the "It's not you, it's me" talk. Ouch.

Hey, no hard feelings all these years later; he was and still is a very nice guy. But I was drowning in rejection at that point, on top of living on my own for the first time, going to high school, and just trying to figure out where my life was headed. And also if I was gay. Because, despite the wounds of rejection, I was starting to figure out men were not my thing.

Still, I needed some fun and distraction. So when I found out most of my peeps were going to this party, I wanted - no, needed - an invitation. (Again: 16.) A couple of nights before the big event, I got my wish. The birthday boy's roommate happened to be hanging out with my extended group of friends. "You can come with me to the party," he offered. A friendly date, of sorts. He would meet me downtown and we would go from there.

Cool beans! I met him downtown a couple of hours before the bash. He seemed like a nice guy. He liked coffee, I liked coffee. He liked music, I liked music. He was a white supremacist, I was-- wait, what?!

By the time we were halfway to the party, I knew his buzz cut was not just a fashion statement. Well, shit. This might be why he had a hard time time finding a date to the party and had to ask three-degrees-of-separation Rando McGee over here if she'd like to go.

I wasn't terribly assertive back then, but there was one thing I knew for sure I couldn't do: spend the evening with a racist turd with a terrible haircut. When we walked into the party room, I not-so-politely told him to fix his life, and bee-lined for my friend, who was sitting at a table near the DJ.

I still remember that table; the size, the shape, the colours bouncing off of it from the lights on the dance floor. I remember it well because that's the table I met my wife at.

I had stepped away for a few minutes to find the bathroom - making sure to plan my trajectory so I could avoid Little Hitler - and when I came back,

there

she

was.

Of course, she didn't look like she does today. She looked male, but with a strong feminine feel to her.

And I, who had struggled to be into guys the way society told me I should be, felt an attraction I had never felt before.

We met. We smiled. We shook hands. And within minutes, her presence eclipsed everything around her. There was no more table, no more dance floor, no more friend (sorry, Sue.)

It was she. It was her. It was us. And I was already falling in love.

It would over 22 years before she would come out to me. It would be many more months of self-reflection before I could reconcile the strong attraction I felt for her - before I knew her as her, and instead knew her as my boyfriend, then fiance, then husband - and my identity as a lesbian.

Oh, and I'm still wrapping my head around how my very liberal self met my very liberal wife because of a white supremacist. Try telling that to your kids.

This whole story of how we met is kind of messy. A party I manipulated my way into. An accidental date with a racist idiot. Falling in love with a woman I wouldn't know was a woman for almost as long as I didn't know I'm a lesbian. None of this is clean cut. It's not simple. It has no straight lines.

(Well, that last part kind of figures.)

But maybe that makes sense, since love isn't all that simple. Love is its own tangled mess. It wraps us up in its tendrils and holds on. And before you know it, it's 24 years later, you have three kids and three pets and still too much mortgage, one of you goes by a different name and pronouns, the other one is sharing your love story for a much-larger-than-you-ever-anticipated international audience, and both of you - oddly enough - are far happier than you were the first 23 years of your relationship.

Love is messy. Love is beautiful. Love is knowing the person you met at a party in 1993 is still the same person you're with today, but now when you kiss her, you get a fresh lip gloss application and that is a serious upgrade.

Zoe, I want to have at least 24 more years of love with you ; this time with less closeted lesbianism and side character racism. What we have is as unique and wonderful as how we met.

Well, it’s a vow renewal, actually. Once upon a time, my wife and I got married as husband and wife. And then, 18 years later, I found out she was never my husband, but was actually a really beautiful lady on the inside this whole time.

Almost 2 years later, we are living openly as wife and wife (very openly, actually). And as it turns out, she’s a beautiful lady on the outside, too. I’m a lucky girl. I want to marry that all over again. Our 20th anniversary seems like the perfect opportunity.

So here I am, planning a wedding. A gay wedding, though. Not your regular straight people wedding. There’s a difference. I’m not quite sure what that difference is, but since people are always trying to make weddings like ours illegal, I figure they have to be different – perhaps even better.

Maybe that’s why people want to ban them: our weddings are just too fabulous and they make straight people look bad, leaving hetero brides crying off their falsies under their veils. “Did you see Samira Wiley's wedding dress? OHMAHGAWD I CAN’T!”

That’s a lot of pressure, you know, as someone who’s planning a lesbian ceremony and is not Samira Wiley. We have to rise above – on a tight budget. I’m already breathing heavily into a paper bag at the thought.

So far, we have the following things figured out:

- We’re doing this locally (we live in lovely Ottawa, Canada), in our friends’ backyard in the country, on August 19th. This backdrop seems just rustic enough for two chicks who dig chicks to get married in.

- No, we are not wearing cowboy hats. Or boots. Or vests. Especially the vest part.

- No, we are not taking any wedding photos on the hood of a Subaru.

- We are, however, both wearing dresses. Not wedding dresses, but nice sundresses. Despite a love for blazers and Converse shoes, I am not going full Ellen on this one. We’re both far too femme for one of us to rock a suit.

I call this photo "Straight Up Femme". Get it? Because straight and...

Yeah. It was funnier in my head.

- Instead of gifts, we’ve asked our guests to bring food. A potluck. Lesbians love potlucks! I’m not sure why. I think it has something to do with not wanting to do dishes because feminism, or maybe to see how many people will bring different types of designer hummus to a party.

- We’ve asked our eldest son to officiate, our youngest son to carry our rings, and our daughter to be our DJ. Our adorable toddler niece will be our flower girl in her rainbow dress.

- I want some twinkly lights. White ones. They're a part of this, somehow.

And that’s all we have so far. I feel grossly underprepared. Between the kids and the writing and the public speaking and the educating and the everything else, I haven’t had time to fully take the bull by the horns. (Despite that metaphor, I’m serious about us not going western-themed for this, ok?)

I thought I was getting somewhere late last week when I emailed a local event place about renting a tent, tables and chairs. “Email us!” the link said, invitingly, and asked for several details to be included so they could “best serve” me. I included all the details, including the day, time, number of people, type of event, and exactly what I’m looking to get a quote on.

They wrote back yesterday saying, “Thanks for your email, Amanda. Please feel free to give our office a call to discuss your event further.” No quote. No idea of availability. Not even a phone call to my cell number, which I provided, but an invitation to call them.

“WHY DO YOU HAVE AN EMAIL CONTACT OPTION THEN?” I yelled all bridezilla-like at my computer screen out of frustration and also maybe because it’s my lady time and the kids ate all the Easter chocolate.

So, this is how it’s going to be, is it? Me, being the worst event planner on the planet, trying to organize things and yelling a lot? Zoe, offering to help her control freak wife, while said wife says, “No, it’s okay, honey, I can handle it. You have a busy job,” while my heart palpates and I wonder what I’ve gotten myself into? Oh, boy.

Or girl. Bridezilla girl. Feel free to helicopter over some chocolate and food drop it into my raging dino-mouth.

It’s going to be a good day, right? Please tell me it’s going to be a good day.

And that’s it not about twinkly lights. And that it will all come together because gay people have magical fairies who invisibly work alongside them and make gay weddings extra great to further the agenda along. And that there will, indeed, be several kinds of designer hummus on a beautifully-decorated table on August 19th.

And that it can all be extraordinary on a small budget I haven’t quite figured out yet.

Because we've decided to prioritize. We’re having a small, inexpensive ceremony so we can take our kids on a two-week adventure in Western Canada (no, people, without vests. Stop asking.)

Two of our children have never been on a plane and one of them is twenty. Before we know it, he’ll be moving out. We want to give them one last, wonderful memory before our household of five becomes a household of four. We're hoping to fly into Alberta, tour through the Rockies, and head out to the West Coast to play in the Pacific Ocean. A family honeymoon to remember.

Oh, and we haven’t planned that out yet, either. Pass the paper bag.

I guess, in the end, I need to focus on what matters.

Flowers, obviously. Cute bouquets are everything.

Oh, and the celebration of our love and family or whatever. I guess that’s the real focus.

When I look at it that way, we could all sit in rickety lawn chairs outside in the rain, while Zoe and I say “I do,” and follow that up with a late night of Cards Against Humanity and too many bottles of wine and it would still be a wonderful day.

Because she is wonderful. My Zoe. My love. She finally gets to be herself on her special day. I get to marry the real her, my wife, in front of the people who love us most. That’s what really matters.

On August 19th, 2017, we will be celebrating 20 years of marriage and our glorious lesbiosity, with hipster hummus dishes and twinkly lights to guide us down the aisle.

And it will be perfect, no matter how it happens.

(But if the fairies want to help out with some of that magical glitter dust and maybe a lottery win, I won’t say no.)

In the past week, I’ve been told my body is both too big and too small.

And it’s left my head spinning.

If you've been following my journey – which is sometimes about big changes in my family and sometimes about how I’m taking care of myself through those changes and sometimes about eating cookies – you know I lost a significant amount of weight two years ago.

After losing and maintaining that 55-pound loss through mindful eating and regular exercise, I’m still by no means a “small” person. Women’s clothing sizes are a bit of a joke, but let’s say I hang out around a 16 in most stores. Smaller up top, heavier on the bottom. (Hold tight. I’ll get to that in a minute.)

But weight loss is only a part of the changes I’ve experienced so far. I also strength train regularly, which has made me put on some muscle and has reshaped my body. So, while I haven’t lost more weight in the last year, I’ve lost some inches and gained a lot of energy. Also, I have sweet biceps now. I make everyone touch them.

Where has this left me? Well, it depends on who you ask. Or maybe you don’t ask them and they tell you anyway, because womanhood.

I have a lot of loose skin hanging around my abdomen these days. Not only because I lost a lot of weight, but because I carried three ten-pound babies, had two c-sections and a hernia repair (the kind you get cut open for, not with the teeny tiny incisions.)

I don’t hate my stomach, because I refuse to hate any part of me. But I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t get in the way – a lot. It makes finding and wearing clothes more challenging. It just… hangs. Like a teenager you wish would go outside more. If I don’t dress right, including a body-shaping undergarment, my body looks unbalanced in a way I don’t like; it’s heavier at the bottom. That makes me a heavy-bottomed girl. There are songs about girls like me, and most of them are catchy.

So yesterday, I spoke with a plastic surgeon’s office about getting abdominoplasty – or, in laymen’s terms, a tummy tuck. I’m not 100% sure I want one, but I wanted to find out what my options are, and am happy to pay for a consultation so I can start planning and saving for the future, should I decide to go that route.

Except I didn’t get past a simple phone call with one of the surgeon’s employees. I was immediately asked my height and weight, and then told my BMI is too high for this surgery.

“You need a Body Mass Index of 30, at most, to qualify. According to your height and weight, you’re a 36.”

“In all fairness,” I said, “I do a lot of strength training. I’m not saying I’m a small person or that I don’t have any fat on me. But I am saying BMI alone is a terrible measurement of fat-to-muscle ratio.”

“We can give you a call in a few months and see where you’re at,” I was told. “Maybe you’ll have lost more weight by then?”

“I’m going to be honest with you,” I said, as politely as I could. “I will not have lost more weight. I like eating real food and I’m proud of the muscle I have on my body. Getting down to the weight you’re looking for is not realistic for me. I’m really disappointed that BMI is used as the standard to determine if someone qualifies for surgery without even knowing what they look like.”

The person on the phone was sympathetic, but firm. That’s the standard. That’s how it goes.

Having done a little digging since, I now understand that a tummy tuck might not get the results you want if there’s too much fat in the tissue they’re working with. So, it’s quite possible I wouldn’t be a good candidate.

But how you would you know that based on my BMI alone? I’m no medical professional, but I’m going to say you can’t.

I’ve known for a very long time that taking someone’s height and weight as the sole determination of how much fat they have on their body or how “healthy” they are is an outdated idea. That’s why I haven’t looked to see what my own BMI is in a long time.

So, just for fun, I looked. According to the chart, I’m not actually a 36. I’m a 35. But regardless, I am in the “obese” category. Category 1 Obese, to be exact.

Interesting fact: If you google “define obese” it says “Grossly Fat or Overweight.”

And if you type in “define grossly” the first of two definitions is: “In a very obvious or unacceptable manner; flagrantly.”

You know what’s wrong with that? Everything. The amount of fat-shaming going on in that medical term is enough to make me want to pull my hair out.

Anyway, this is a picture I took of me yesterday, after getting off the phone.

Based on the numbers, I am obese. Okay, that's fine. Lots of people fit into that category.

It was a post about approaching my body and my health journey with love, rather than epic amounts of self-loathing, which used to be my jam. In the post, I happened to mention that I’m plus-size.

And then I got told I was not.

When I replied to that comment with, “I’m a size 16,” which definitely makes me a bigger person, I was told by someone else I’m not plus-size enough to deal with the discrimination people over a certain size deal with every single day.

Okay. Despite how I don't like when people make assumptions about other people's lives, that statement does has some truth to it. At my current size, I’m not dealing with a high level of discrimination (even though I’m clearly still dealing with some, as recently as yesterday). But I’ve had a lifetime of having lived those experiences, and that pain has stayed with me.

On the first date night Zoe and I had after our eldest was born – while I was struggling with postpartum depression and dealing with the first few months of life as a young mother – a woman yelled “fat cow!” at me out a car window while her friends laughed. We were just walking down the street on our way home after a perfect evening. It crushed me.

A few months later, taking my son to the beach for the first time, some dude bros openly pointed at me and said, “Check out the beached whale!” I avoided beaches for years after.

When I went in to repair a hernia along the incision line of my c-sections, I was told the reason I had the hernia was because I was overweight. Not because surgical wounds don’t always heal perfectly. Not because I might have overdone it with a new baby at a time when I needed to rest. But because I was fat. The surgeon made sure to tell me that a few times.

He also opened me up vertically, due to my “size”, leaving a big, ugly scar from my belly button to my pubic bone. “It will heal better this way” he said. This, of course, was after I told him my horizontal - and practically invisible - caesarean scar healed fine, without any infections. I now have two scars on the stomach I can’t seem to even get looked at.

I have countless stories like these. Public shaming. Medical shaming. Hot tears running down my embarrassed face. Crash diets to try and take the weight off. Fearing for my health after being told I would die young. Binge eating to deal with falling off a wagon that was impossible to stay on in the first place. Avoiding shopping trips with people smaller than me because I couldn’t shop in the same stores and felt ashamed. Feeling like everyone was looking at me in restaurants. Not being able to squeeze into a chair with arms. Breaking a plastic lawn chair and falling on my ass in our backyard, while our young neighbours giggled next door.

I’ve been there. It’s awful. The world is terrible to fat people, and the pain of that lasts a lifetime. I’ve had to fight really, really hard to get to a place where I treat myself gently, set realistic expectations that fly in the face of what the world says I should be, and love myself through it all.

But you know what I’ve learned? Being smaller doesn't make all that terribleness that stop.

People’s bodies – and especially women’s bodies – are policed all the time. I see it not only when it comes to fat women, but also trans women, gay women, disabled women, women of colour, and so many others. Whether it’s medical, fitness, nutrition, beauty, or parenting, we are often ignored, shamed, dismissed or forgotten altogether.

As a society, we need to start thinking outside the narrow views we’ve been taught, from schoolyard taunts to outdated medical teachings. Everyone, regardless of size, health, race, gender or ability has the right to be respected for the body they have, and to be seen as individuals, not numbers.

I was too fat and too thin in one week. Go figure. I’ll be thinking about that for a long time to come, and what I can do with my one, small voice to change how we talk about and treat people's bodies.

But for now, I’m going to find another surgeon to talk to, love myself extra hard this week, and go lift some weights so I can more easily shovel dirt on the grave of that grossly outdated BMI chart.

“OMG Zoe! We need to take a picture of you!” I call up the stairs, morning coffee in hand.

“Um, why?” she calls down from the bathroom.

“Because it’s your one year out-a-versary, obviously.” I roll my eyes for dramatic effect, but she doesn’t see it because I’m, like, yelling up the stairs still. “One year of living 24/7 as beautiful you!”

And it is, by the way. A whole year now.

One year and one week ago, Zoe sent a message to hundreds of coworkers, saying, “Hey, I’m trans and these are my new names and pronouns, but I’m just as awesome as ever, so you may continue to think so.” (I might be paraphrasing a little.)

The result was overwhelming support. Replies started to flood her inbox within a few minutes. When she returned back to work exactly one year ago today, her closest coworkers lovingly decorated her cubicle, left heartfelt gifts on her desk, then fooled her into thinking she was walking into an emergency meeting in a conference room but - surprise! - it was one incredible coming out party.

It had cupcakes, you guys. Cupcakes and hugs. And probably some other stuff too, but they’re all secondary to sugar and love.

All my fears of how she was going to navigate the same job with the same people while living as a different gender vanished. Those 15 years of history didn’t make it harder for her to be accepted as her true self, they made it easier. In the end, the people she works with don’t care what Zoe’s pronouns are, they just care about Zoe.

Yes, it really can be that simple.

If you’ve been following my family’s journey for a while – the story of our child’s transition, followed by my spouse’s transition a few months later – then you know how big my little post about Zoe’s work party became. It was one of the biggest on this blog, and was featured in publications in several countries on 5 different continents. We heard from people all over the world, including several HR departments who shared that post as an example of how do things right.

So yeah, we needed a picture this morning, ok?

“Ok, sure. I’ll get my eyeliner on,” Zoe replies from upstairs.

My wife is hot. She doesn’t need eyeliner. But she might argue everyone needs eyeliner before 8 a.m. And she might be on to something. She's not just hot, but smart, too. I totally lucked out.

***

This morning, I woke up in fear. The last whispers of an ominous dream hanging over me.

In it, the political climate in Canada had changed to match the one in the US. Bill C-16, the trans rights bill that is this close to passing into law, was snuffed out of existence. A new government came in, and their goal of oppressing everyone who wasn’t like them was wrapped into tidy ideas like “safety” and “family values” and “religious freedom.”

In the dream, I was panicked. Hate had been let loose, claws out and teeth bared, and my family was trapped in the proverbial arena, exposed and vulnerable. All the steps our country had made to protect my same-sex marriage, to protect the people I love more than anything, were gone. Would our family become illegal under new laws? Would discrimination prevent us from living the beautiful life we had before?

We have good friends, extended family, coworkers, schools, neighbours and medical support. Nearly everyone we knew before we began this journey has chosen to walk alongside us and learn with us and love us. Some have left, but their spaces have been filled with the kind of people everyone wants to have in their lives: compassionate, open-minded, understanding and protective. We may live in a bubble, but its casing is pretty tough because of the people who created it for us.

It’s a good life inside this bubble.

But I know what it’s like outside of it, and I know not everyone has what we do. Just the other day, a local trans child took her own life, and my limited understanding of that situation is that she wasn’t getting the support she needed from the people she needed it from the most. Just outside of our bubble, there are people hurting and people dying.

They need bubbles, too. And fast.

***

Sometimes, the fear creeps up on me, as it did this morning. It’s a reminder that all the progress we’ve made can turn on a dime. Families like mine could lose everything. My wife could work in a place that doesn’t accept her, or lose her job and never work again. My daughter could be too scared to go to school, unable to be herself without serious repercussions.

These are the things that can happen if hate takes hold. Because make no mistake: hate does live here. It’s just not very loud right now.

Whenever I feel that way, and the panic starts to well up inside me, I stop. I take a few belly breaths, as my speaking coach, Mary, insists I do whenever I’m about to go on stage. It helps the adrenaline burn off so rational thoughts can return.

And once I can think rationally again, there’s really only one thing that comes to mind when I contemplate hate taking over and all the bad that would bring with it:

Well, guess I can’t let that happen, then.

That is literally my thought. It’s grandiose to the point of laughter, but that’s exactly what pops into my head. I can’t let that happen, so I won’t.

Not alone, obviously. There are plenty of people doing this work. There are folks hounding politicians and training school staff and helping religious congregations become more inclusive and insisting on better support at every level for the LGBTQ community. They’re doing big, important work.

And I? Well, I will continue to tell stories.

Like that time Zoe went to work and everyone celebrated her, so I wrote about.

And the time I got a message from a scared woman in Finland who had been terrified to come out to her partner and little girl until she read our story in a Finnish newspaper. And how they came to Canada and stayed with us all summer, and now live 10 minutes down the road and have become our family.

And the local woman who had never breathed a word about her true self until she read about Zoe’s coming out at work story - a workplace that resembles her own. And how she reached out to me, met with us, came out to her spouse, told her kids, transitioned at work, is living as her gorgeous self these days, and makes me smile wide every time I see her.

And so many more stories just like these. Too many to list here. (It’s a good thing I’m writing a book.)

Stories. They’re powerful. They connect us. They stay in our hearts. They shape our world. They make us see things in a new light.

Stories stay with us when we go to the polls and vote in a new government. They whisper to us when we’re in a position to stand up for someone else. They tap us on the shoulder when someone we love says, “Hey, I have something important I need to tell you, and I hope you’ll still love me when I'm done.”

I will keep telling stories; beautiful, empowering, painful, angry, enchanting, real stories. That’s how I’m going to make sure hate doesn’t take hold. It is both my sword and my shield.

We will change the world, one beautiful love story at a time.

***

One year later. Just as dreamy!

I mean professional. Just as professional.

One year of Zoe’s life lived to the fullest. One year of my life seeing the person I love finally be herself and falling in love all over again. One year of our kids being able to say “my moms” to everyone they meet. One year of a journey we’ve just begun.

Hope you have more eyeliner ready, my beautiful wife. We’re not done yet. We have a whole world to change.

It's 2017, and you're leading the fight with your organization against the wrongs perpetrated by the left. Your oddly orange candidate has won the election. The White House is looking pretty white, indeed, and your president is keeping a spare toothbrush in Fox News’ apartment because things are getting that serious between them.

The gays are scared, the Muslims are panicked, and your giant wall might actually become a reality.

Yes, the months you spent campaigning for the big winner have paid off. You can put away your "Get off your rump and vote for Trump!” shirt for at least another three years and just bask in the glory of being an American.

But you can only bask for so long. There’s work to do! Lots of it. Sure, the best guy – the very best; you’ve never seen a better guy – is in office, but those snowflake Liberals are being so whiny about it. They’re taking to the streets in numbers far higher than were seen at your president’s inauguration.

(I mean, if you listen to those fake news agencies, which you don’t because Fox is your bae.)

But even though it was only a very small, annoying group of protesters in, like, a couple of cities, they still got a lot of attention. Liberal media loves to blow things up like that, don’t they?

The problem with these protestors – women, mostly, because they just don’t know when to let things go, amiright? – is that they’re trying to dismantle all the fine work the Great Lea—sorry, the President – is doing.

Don’t they get it? All he wants is to save America!

Well, most of America.

Not the gays. If you give them too much, they’ll take it all. I mean, just look at Fashion Week.

Hey! Maybe that’s what you could do. You could, like, get together with a bunch of organizations who also don’t support trans people and you can make sure everyone knows that!

By… by… Hang on… Oh! There’s the idea! (Thank you, Jesus!)

You and your buddies from various “Christian” (we're going to use that term loosely) organizations can acquire and paint a bus. Yes. A giant orange bus, because orange is the colour of the man you elected, and orange is the colour of free speech. Well, it is now, because that’s what you’ve decided.

Beep beep! Move aside, progress!

Credit: National Organization for Marriage

So you take this giant orange bus, and you write some spiffy information on it like “Boys are boys… and always will be” and “Girls are girls… and always will be” and then you can prove that trans people are giant fakers. That trans kids are just confused and/or want to upset you by using the bathroom you don’t want them to use at Target because it matters to you for some reason.

You’re tired of that damn community having a voice and getting help from the rest of the snowflakes! You’re tired of them whining about wanting the same rights as everyone else, when clearly your right to decide they’re not real is more important! You’re tired of having to share the world with people who are different than you! It’s so hard. It's so complicated.

This bus, with its flashy Hansel & Gretel cut-outs and its hashtag about free speech is going to fix everything as it drives around your great country.

It’s totally worth the money, because the overly simplistic messaging will undoubtedly spark an important conversation about gender identity. When they see it, everyone who once believed trans people by talking to actual trans people and learning actual science from real scientists doing credible studies are going to tear off their Bernie Sanders bracelets in shame and immediately unfollow Laverne Cox’s Instagram account.

And because you’re making free speech a part of the campaign, you can’t go wrong. Who doesn’t love free speech?

Yeah, the Cheetomobile is going to crush it.

Once the Bigot Bus reaches its final destination, you can go back to your nice, simple life, where you understood everyone because they are exactly like you. Isn’t that the best? When you don’t have to consider the feelings of others? That’s the way God wanted it. That’s why He made busses and orange paint.

Except…. Oh, dear. There’s a little problem.

That stuff about "biology" and the "chromosomes"? Unfortunately, there’s a fair bit of science to shut down your outdated arguments. And that stuff doesn't have to do with gender, anyway, which has been well established in the scientific community for a good while, now. But maybe if you get a big megaphone and shout over the facts, that might work. I know a certain politician who does that all the time.

Oh, and I know more than a few trans people who've told me they are who they are... and they can't change that. That's why they came out in the first place, so they could live as who they really are. They're not "switching" genders.

If your aim is to discredit the trans community, I have some bad news for you. Between your shoddy science and iffy slogan, this campaign could have used a little more work. Too bad the bus has already left the depot, eh?

But hey, don’t let me stop you from enjoying your nationwide bigotry tour. This is your moment to really shine! In many years from now, your grandkids will look at history books and see your proud face as you rally around that bus, actively denying other people’s existence and refusing them rights in the name of making America great again.

You, in the history books! Just like those people who protested when schools were no longer segregated and water fountains became something everyone could use. Except you get a flashy bus that your future grandchildren can be embarrassed about. And a hashtag to commemorate the hate!

So have fun. And If you don’t know where to put that bus when you’re done with it, I have a suggestion for you.

I had a conversation this weekend that left me itching to write this post. It also left me a little scared to write it, because I know it’s going to ruffle some feathers. Not everyone is going to feel the same way, and I’m going to hear about it – perhaps quite harshly. But that’s exactly why I feel I need to write this post in the first place (OMG so meta!).

I won’t get into details about the conversation itself, to protect the anonymity of the person I had it with. But essentially, they were chastised for being a poor ally to the LGBTQ community because they expressed hurt over being aggressively called out – and then they were promptly eye-rolled at, told off, and unfriended.

This type of thing has happened to me, too. But first, a little backstory for those who are reading my blog for the first time: I’m a lesbian who is married to a trans woman and raising three kids, including a trans child. There’s a rainbow over our little suburban home 24/7, but you can only see it if you’re gay enough. (It’s a test. Since everyone’s wearing plaid these days, we needed a more precise detection system.)

Both my wife and child came out within the last three years. This means I’m a member of the greater LGBTQ community, and a close ally to the trans community (one of my trans friends jokingly calls me “honorary trans” because you can’t get much closer to the cause.)

But I’m also relatively new to being an active ally to the trans community. I’m still learning some of the deeper concepts, and because language is always evolving, I’m constantly working on getting it right. To complicate things further, as in many communities, there are disagreements within it about how to discuss certain topics and what narratives are valid. This makes sense, since community members are human beings with their own beliefs and personal stories.

But what all of this means is, I’m going to screw up. I just am. It’s inevitable. Thankfully, it doesn’t seem to happen all that often. I’m careful about the language I use because the last thing I want to do is hurt anyone. I’m also a writer, which helps on the communication front. But every now and then, I will epically botch something.

One time, when I failed miserably at explaining the difference between gender and sex to a troll who was trying to invalidate the existence of trans people, I was called out very publicly and harshly by a trans person. It wasn’t just an education in where I went wrong, it felt like an attack. I was told I was contributing to the death toll of trans people with my language. If the Obama administration could get it right, why couldn’t I? My mistake was several levels of fucked up. It went on, despite my apologies and my promise to learn and do better. I had never felt so ashamed as an ally.

I called my wife over and had her read what I said. She explained, in a kind way, where I went wrong in my language. But by that point, I was sobbing. Not because I made a mistake, but because I was so shaken by the response to my mistake. It was like being screamed at by your boss in front of all your coworkers, rather than called in for a private discussion.

Now, this is where people are going to group into two camps:

Camp 1: The oppressed party has every right to say what they need to say to the person who is oppressing them (which would be me, in this case, with the language I used.) They do not need to educate kindly, they do not need to be gentle with the person who screwed up. A true ally will develop a thick skin and learn to take the lumps because it’s not about them.

Camp 2: The oppressed party should remember the ally is a human being with actual feelings, and deal with them as such. Sure, they made a mistake, but how do you keep your allies if you treat them this way?

So, you’re either going to think I was wrong for being upset about being called out in that manner, or you’re going to be upset I was called out like that in the first place.

I’m not really upset by either at this point, because all that sadness lead me to the Ottawa Humane Society that week, where I adopted the Cutest. Kitten. On. Earth. as a form of therapy. (#worthit)

Kitten therapy is the best therapy.

But if this has taught me anything, it’s that we don’t need two camps. We need to start camping together, instead of glaring at each other from across the field, trying to argue who’s right. There are valid points in both cases.

This experience got me thinking about allies, and how we treat them. Not because of what happened to me – honestly, I can take it and I have an adorable cat to show for it – but because of what happened after. When people saw what had transpired, I started to receive dozens of messages.

Some of these messages were from trans people, telling me they didn’t think I deserved the tongue lashing I had received (again, this goes to show how individuals make up a community.) But most were from folks I consider to be kind, compassionate, relatively privileged, straight, cisgender (AKA not trans) people - people with a fair amount of influence, as far as helping create change go - and the message from all of them was the same:

“What happened to you is exactly why I don’t speak out. I’m terrified of having the same thing happen to me. Because if an ally like you can be attacked like that, what chance do I have?“

Message after message, comment after comment, all the same. These kind, compassionate, relatively privileged, straight, cisgender people are not speaking out – not because they’re afraid of the bigots, but because they’re afraid of the communities they would otherwise support. That’s not good.

I didn’t write about this back then because it was still too raw. I didn’t want to come across as whiny and hurt, because the bigger hurt was done to the trans community that day. I messed up. And you know what? The person who called me on it did have every right to do it as they saw fit.

However, there are consequences to our actions. And the conversation I had this weekend reminded me of that.

If I didn’t have two trans people in my nuclear family, I likely would have gone silent after that day. If not for unconditional love, why would I speak out in support of a cause when the people in that cause might kick me when I get it wrong? What’s my incentive?

For many people, there is no incentive strong enough to keep going once that happens a few times. They’ll just go quiet. And then we lose allies.

So let me take off my trans ally hat and put on my lesbian hat for a minute so I can say this with complete authority to everyone I know and everyone reading this:

If you are a good person who makes a mistake around me when discussing sexual orientation, I will not attack you. I will gently correct you, but I will not chastise you. I will educate you, but I will do it with love. Always.

I will do this because I don’t want to scare off the people who wish to stand beside me. I don’t want you running in the opposite direction because I shamed you for doing a very human thing and making a mistake.

Yes, there will undoubtedly be times when it’s harder to be nice, particularly if people have made the same mistake you have countless times before you did. My energy might be running low that day, that week, or that year. But that’s not your fault, and I won’t make it your fault.

I also won’t suggest you educate yourself without providing you with at least a starting point or two. I see people say, “It’s not my job to educate you” a fair bit. Totally true. It’s not their job or my job. But I’ll give you some guidelines so you don’t go off into the scary, scary internet and find sites that will tell you the gay agenda controls children’s minds through radio waves emanating from Elton John’s basement. (It’s actually true, but I’m not allowed to talk about it.)

I want you walking beside my family. I want you here. I don’t want you to be uncomfortable or outright afraid around me. The last thing I need is for you to give up and decide you can’t do anything right, so what’s the point? That just breeds animosity rather than connection. It creates a divide between us. That’s the opposite of how to build an army of support.

I can’t guarantee that everyone else will treat you the same way. People walk their own paths, and some won’t consider kindness in their responses to be as important. But if you have questions, you can ask me. If you make a mistake, we’re still cool. I promise.

That’s how I want to be treated, and so that’s how I will treat you. Full stop.

Ok, back to the ally hat. I will continue to make mistakes. That’s a given. Thankfully, I have two great teachers in my own family and many wonderful trans friends to learn from. I’m fortunate that way.

We are all still learning, and there is far more to connect us than to divide us. I'll harness the power of that connection over creating a bigger divide any day.

Must go call Elton on the sparkle phone. We need to set up a North American commlink to increase signal strength.

You're supposed to be strong in my line of work. Sometimes, I feel anything but.

A few days ago, I wanted to quit. Quit advocating for LGBTQ rights, quit writing, quit speaking and interviews and interfacing with people. Quit the Twitter trolls and the middle-of-the-night hate-filled emails and the occasional-but-nonetheless-disturbing threats to my family's safety.

Quit the whole damn thing. Walk away. Done.

I was frustrated; I couldn't see the progress anymore. I thought we were getting somewhere, until Trump got elected. I thought we were getting somewhere, as a people who see people as people, until the mosque shooting in Quebec city and the bomb threats that followed. I thought we were getting somewhere as a society, until I saw sensible people I know stand up for a transphobic speaker being hosted at the National Art Gallery, under the name of free speech.

I thought we were getting somewhere, and then I didn't. It's like a light went out.

I've only been advocating strongly for about three years, since my first family member came out as trans. I'm not someone who's been fighting her entire life. Yes, I was a giant closeted lesbian for a lifetime, but being closeted and being married to someone the world perceived as a dude (until she became the hottest wife who ever hotted *ahem*) afforded me certain comforts. I could fight for people or not fight for people. I had a choice.

That is, until those people became my people. And then I no longer had a choice, and I fought like a dragon, breathing fire.

I hit the ground running three years ago, and I haven't stopped - not nearly enough, anyway. Not enough breaks, not enough breaths. And it all came to a head two weeks ago, when, between writing, interviews, email and talk prep, I was pulling 16-hour days.

I became the monosyllabic mom who would grunt and point to the boxes of Kraft Dinner when the kids said they were hungry, then grab her coffee and shuffle back to her desk. At night, I would fall into bed next to my wife without saying a word, my energy stores completely spent, and pass out with a book on my chest.

Truth be told, I was afraid to stop working that week. Because, while I was rapidly burning the candle at both ends, a little voice was saying, 'Why are you doing this? What good is it? Have you seen the comments you're getting on social media? Have you seen the rolling back of rights for trans people? Have you seen the support for Conservative leaders who condone bigotry? You think you're helping, Amanda, but you're not. You're just banging your head against a wall. You're a fool to think you can change anything."

You are a fool.

I started daydreaming about what life would be like if I just walked away.

Goodbye, advocacy that doesn't seem to make a difference.

Goodbye, pain in the ass trolls who ruin Twitter for everyone.

Goodbye, futile attempts to change the world.

Goodbye.

There are other people who do this work, and they could keep doing it without me. Maybe they're stronger than I am.

Hey, I could just go work in a coffee shop, where I would still deal with bigots, but I wouldn't know they're bigots; I'd only know how many pumps of pumpkin spice they want in their lattes. Bliss.

I had always wondered what complete burnout looked like, and now I knew. It was ugly and it was mean. It made me forget any of the good I was doing.

But before making the switch to full-time barista, I had a commitment I needed to honour. The YWCA Banff had asked me to be their keynote speaker at the Change Makers event, held on International Women's Day. They do incredible work, from empowering women in many ways to providing social housing in an area that really needs it. Having spent some time getting to know the people there and the work they do, they have a very special place in my heart. (You can make a donation to them here.)

I promised myself I would hold off on making any big decisions until I went out West for that talk. Maybe something would change. Maybe Amanda would get her groove back.

I had never been to Alberta before. I had never been in the Rocky Mountains, had never soaked in their majesty.

My biggest accomplishment last week wasn't the keynote address, it was coming home alive because I didn't get hit by a truck as I stood gaping at the mountains all around me. I also didn't get eaten by any wildlife when I walked out of town to find some unobstructed views. It was just like I was on an episode of Naked and Afraid, except I wasn't naked or afraid and I had a hotel room with survival fudge in it. But otherwise? Exactly the same.

The trip was beautiful, from the vast mountains to the vast amounts of time I spent alone, walking quiet paths or sitting in Evelyn's Coffee Shop not trying to guesstimate the calories in my mocha with whipped cream and extra chocolate sprinkles.

Photo credit: Liz Nelson, who takes great pictures (which is why I stole this one.)

But the real beauty happened the night of the talk. I got up on stage and spent an hour telling my story, as passionately and honestly as I could, hoping to reach at least one person in the audience that night. My goal is always that one person who needs to hear what I have to say. If I know I've reached them, I've done a good job.

That night, at the wine reception that followed, I received more positive feedback than I have ever received after a talk.

There was a church official looking at how to best support a transitioning parishioner.

There was a woman who is going through her own coming out process and wanted to know how I speak my truth without shame.

A man who has a recently out non-binary child approached me, and said, after listening to me speak about the importance of parental support, he's going to fully embrace his child, even if he doesn't yet fully understand.

A woman with a trans child in her family promised to send my blog to her family members, as she feels they could use an example of "how to do it right."

And another woman came up to me, held my hands, had me look her in the eyes and said, "You, my dear, are a woman of distinction." Because apparently my makeup was too nice and she needed me to cry it off.

It just went on. Person after person, handshake after handshake, hug after meaningful hug. And, before long, that bitter little voice inside me was replaced with one that said, "See? This is why you do this."

I came home last week with renewed purpose. At the Calgary airport, I shared a dinner table in a busy restaurant with two men on the corporate side of a large national grocery chain, and I asked about their inclusion policies and ways they could improve upon them. "Keep telling your story," one of them said as they were running off to catch their flight. "It's important."

On the plane ride home, I sat with two women who were off on an Ottawa adventure for a milestone birthday. We chatted for a good two hours about my family's story, and the many ways all of us can focus on inclusion and acceptance. We hit it off so well that I drove them from the airport to where they were staying, and we shared hugs and contact information. I just got a smile-inducing email from them last night.

I wanted to reach one person, and ended up I reaching many. It was a reminder that my work isn't futile, it's just slow. But all those connections are important; they weave a web of understanding that eventually envelops the globe.

I'd like to think I'm entirely bad ass now. (Please play along.)

They day after I got home, I had "Lead with love" tattooed on my right arm - the one I shake everyone's hand with. It's been something I've wanted for a while, and it seemed like a fitting moment; a commitment to my work, to my life, and to the love that guides it.

"The mountains are magical," my friend said to me before I left. She was right; they brought me back to my purpose.

Maybe one day, I'll go make coffee for a living. But for now, I'll just keep drinking way too much of it while I do this incredible, overwhelming, meaningful, frustrating and beautiful work.

It was a chilly morning in March when I first stepped into the social worker’s office. We sat down on opposite comfortable chairs, and she pulled a side table a little closer to me so I could put my coffee down if I wanted to.

Not that I wanted to.

Coffee is my comfort drink. She seemed to sense that immediately – likely because I was clutching it in my hands for dear life like an eagle holds a rabbit. I pick up a coffee to take with me whenever I’m anxious; It’s a habit I have yet to grow out of. And that day, I was certainly anxious.

“I’m here to talk about what’s going on in my family,” I said. And slowly, like a timidly blooming flower, I began to reveal what was going on inside me. “So, here's the thing: Our child came out as transgender a few days ago. I’m trying to be supportive and to understand what h—sorry, she’s—going through. I'm still getting used to the pronouns. And everything else."

"It's okay," she said. "I'm sure it takes time."

"Yeah, but I want to get it right all the time, you know? For her. I have to put on a brave face 24/7, and do and say the right things, and I’m going to have to talk to the school and our family and our neighbours and everyone else. I have to be a mama bear. But inside, I’m falling apart.”

As the story unraveled, the tears began to flow. I don’t think I put my coffee down on the table even once; I held it tightly and took small sips to soothe the lump in my throat. The social worker listened patiently and attentively, quietly passing the tissue box when I needed it.

This was the beginning of a working relationship that would span several months. Every week or so, I would find myself in her office, holding a warm coffee cup, and let loose. It was my safe spot where I could just be Amanda. Not Amanda the mom. Not Amanda the wife. Not Amanda the unprepared advocate. Just Amanda.

And in that space, Amanda could feel all her feels. She could drink her coffee or just hold it until it got too cold and gross to drink. (It still served its purpose in my talon-hands, though, trust me.) She could say what she wanted without worrying about hurting anyone’s feelings. She could just be.

Truthfully, it became the most important hour of my week. It made me a better parent to a child who really needed me at my best.

This isn’t the first time therapy has improved my situation even more than clutching a coffee cup does. So, when the Ontario Association of Social Workers (OASW) asked me to write about my personal experiences for Social Work Week, I was all over it. I don’t normally do these kinds of plugs, because I'm careful about what I put on my site. But this fits perfectly. It's a cause I can get behind.

Mental health is often discussed in hushed tones. We’ll lower our voices whenever we talk about it. A look around the room. A pause. And then a near-whisper, like an admittance of guilt: “So…" *shifty eyes* "I met with someone today about my anxiety…”

I don’t know why we do this. Why are we so ashamed? We’re not kicking puppies, we’re taking care of ourselves. The fact many of us do feel ashamed speaks volumes (pun intended) to the stigma that still surrounds mental health.

Let's contrast this with another good thing we do for ourselves: When is the last time you whispered about going to the gym? I’m guessing never. (And if you’re like me, you might actually raise your voice when bringing up your current squat weight in a crowded room. Yes, I'm that obnoxious.)

It’s almost like we believe taking care of our bodies is something strong people do, while taking care of our minds is something weak people have to do.

I’ve worked with therapists of all stripes for a good part of my life. I have an anxiety disorder, and I've dealt with more than one bout of depression. Therapy has been a lifeline for me.

But I owe a great deal to social workers, specifically. When I was 16 and homeless, it was a social worker who helped me manage the intense stress I was under, and connected me with the resources I needed to get off the street. Today, in large part thanks to that help, I’m a homeowner, engaged community member, and in a position to advocate for other struggling youth by doing a job I love.

Years later, it would be a social worker, one passionate about LGBTQ issues, who would explain gender identity to me in a way I could understand. And yet another social worker would connect me with a support group for parents of trans kids, where I would meet other families like mine on what can otherwise be a lonely journey.

It's so easy to feel alone in our struggles, and yet we never have to be.

This week, March 6-12, 2017, the OASW will be addressing the many issues facing people today. They'll have a theme on their Facebook page each day, and invite people to ask questions. Here's a list of this week's themes:

Monday, March 6: Addictions and Mental Health

Tuesday, March 7: Bullying

Wednesday, March 8: Relationship Problems

Thursday, March 9: Stress Management

Friday, March 10: Caregiving and the "Sandwich Generation."

And, my guess is you can ask about LGBTQ-specific issues any day of the week. I know the OASW stands behind trans issues, because they presented me with an award in 2014 for a piece I wrote on raising trans kids. A progressive move on their part, believe me. Their compassion for trans youth is a big reason why I was happy to take part in this campaign.

Three years after that first tear-filled appointment, I'm still clutching a cup of coffee in my hands anytime I'm anxious. But life has become less anxiety-producing with the right supports. Progress, not perfection.

No shame for this girl - ever. I'll keep embracing my squat weight and my mental health. And if you're struggling with your own shame in asking for help, I hope you'll learn to do the same. Let's stop stigmatizing what can help make our lives better.

Disclaimer: While I was compensated for this post, all views remain my own. My integrity towards any subject is always my top priority.

It's 9:30 p.m., and I'm just stepping off the anxiety train for the first time today. All aboard the panic caboose!

I have an anxiety disorder, in case you didn't know. Also, in case you didn't know, anxiety disorders are balls.

It's been with me for a lifetime, and has manifested itself in different ways, from hypochondria (I think the newer term is "health anxiety") to OCD ("Did I turn the oven off? Let's get out of bed and check again! More steps on the FitBit!"). Lately, however, it's just good ol' fashioned Generalized Anxiety Disorder, or GAD. I keep it at bay with exercise and deep breathing, a decent diet and coffee with friends.

But not today. Today, it was a beast. A lion. It backed me into a corner and dug its claws in. That's because I had to do some unexpected advocacy. Frankly, unexpected anything is enough to send the lion running straight at me across the Savannah. But advocacy carries a certain weight, a responsibility that makes it a really big lion.

The National Gallery of Canada has invited a known transphobe to give a talk. It's surprising to exactly no one that I would take big issue with this, not only because I have two trans family members and many friends I love dearly, but also because the queer community has historically found the art world to be one of the few safe and accepting places for us. To have someone who regularly speaks out against trans people and their rights giving a talk at our national art gallery is harmful and a slap in the face to queer Canadian artists. Why they would invite someone so hateful is beyond me, but I'm not going to stay silent about it.

So I wrote a Facebook post about the whole thing, and it was shared a few times. Then came interview requests from various media agencies. Before long, there were cameras at my place and a trans friend and I were doing our best to explain why the National Gallery is all wrong about this.

I'm no stranger to media. I've worked with them plenty of times. I wouldn't say I ever get comfortable being interviewed, but it's not as terrifying as it used to be. It's a necessary part of the advocacy work I do. But I never look forward to what happens once the cameras are off, the phone call ends, or I wrap up a radio interview, and I find myself on the other side of the chaos. Generally, I silently go into a panic.

Here's the thing: I'm pretty confident most of the time. But advocacy requires me to give a lot of myself. It's like saying, "Here, take my carefully articulated thoughts, my mass amounts of adrenaline, all the research I could pull together, and all the passion I feel for this topic because it directly affects the people I love." I place it in front of them with a piece of my heart and a piece of my mind, desperately hoping it does some good. It's vulnerability at its finest.

By the time it's all over, I'm raw. I have no reserves left. The anxiety swells. And in that moment, the messages I've spent a lifetime holding at bay will come flooding through.

"You probably screwed that up. Said the wrong thing," the lion will whisper.

"They should have asked someone else to do this. You should have said no," it will taunt, claws digging deeper.

"You are the most uneducated person. Did you hear yourself?" it will ask, fangs exposed.

"Who do you think you are?" it will roar.

Who do I think I am? Good question. In that moment, I am a younger Amanda, somewhere between the age of 5 and 15, and I'm being repeatedly told I'm worthless. I'm being shoved and kicked and, at one point, as I've mentioned before, even set on fire. I am the girl who was mocked when she used her voice until she felt she couldn't use it at all. I am the girl who hid who she was, because being openly gay would put me in danger. So I am nobody, and nobody cares what I have to say.

This is the place I can so quickly go to when I'm feeling vulnerable. It's dark and ugly and I hate it, because Logical Amanda is trying to reason with Emotional Amanda. Logical Amanda gets angry about being back there. "We're forty now!" Logical Amanda will yell. "We are not that person anymore! We have children and a wife and a wonderful life filled with incredible experiences and so much love. Don't you see that?"

And now Logical Amanda is yelling and that jerk lion is roaring and I am definitely not having a gay ol' time, thanks.

The problem is Emotional Amanda is a slow learner. She's not quick to budge. She lingers in the schoolyard a little while longer, looking back. Sometimes for hours, sometimes for more than a day, before she makes her way into the present again.

I am still that lonely girl in the schoolyard. And I don't know if I'll ever truly graduate.

Our formative years create the foundation of who we are. I gave a talk on that very thing last year, and I compared a solid childhood foundation to one filled with cracks. My foundation is definitely leaky because of the experience I've had, from an absent biological father to being the joke of an entire high school, from depression to substance abuse to homelessness. I've spent a lifetime repairing that foundation, but it will never be perfect.

But, you know, maybe that's okay.

Maybe part of what makes me a half-decent advocate is that I've lived through some of my own profound pain. I know what it's like to be at the bottom, to feel alone, to wish someone would speak up for me.

Maybe being able to relate on that level breeds compassion, which is the driving force behind everything I do. I might not be the smartest or most educated person, but that compassion gives me fierce drive. It comes from that place deep within me that says, "Be the voice you once needed. Don't let anyone else feel that alone." It makes me talk into cameras and go on live radio. It makes me write these blog posts. It gets me through the panic. It makes me love what I do and never want to stop doing it, even on the hard days.

Maybe I wouldn't be able to do what I do if I didn't have that cracked foundation. It's an imperfect system, but what's perfect, anyway? Aren't we all a little broken in our own ways?

I'll keep trying to silence those voices. It's getting a little better these days. Today, I put in a mayday call to a friend and she came running for coffee and cookies therapy. Tomorrow, I'll work the rest of it out at the gym, and then spend the day preparing for a talk I'm giving in Alberta next week - yet another out-of-my-comfort-zone moment. Yet another moment when I get to use the voice I finally found again through speaking up alongside my daughter, my wife, and the incredible trans community they belong to.

The schoolyard isn't where I'd like to linger, but it could be going back there from time to time allows me to keep moving forward. And one day, I'll tame that lion.

I grew up hearing people tell me that having a child would change my life. And I would think, "Well, duh. They do that. They're a lot of work and a lot of love." That change is epic, even in the most typical of circumstances.

Dudes, seriously. If you've been reading my blog for a while (or are one of the growing number of people who incoherently email me at 4 a.m. to tell me you discovered it a few hours ago and have wasted the night away reading every single post and it's all my fault), you know why I'm writing a book about it all.

She was 11 back then, and terrified to tell us. The world wasn't quite ready to fully embrace her, and I'd argue, given the political climate and the ugly rise of bigotry, it's not quite ready today, either.

Still, we've come a long way since then, and I've learned a few things that I hope to share with those who still aren't quite ready to embrace LGBTQ families. This post is dedicated to you.

Alexis, Age 12, January 2015

Over the last three years, we've watched the person we knew as a sad and hurting little boy transform outwardly into the glorious and gutsy girl she kept locked inside for too many years. The forced, pained smiles we would see on our child's face have grown into real ones (now with added braces). The child we once greatly feared for is now someone I admire for her strength.

She was in grade 6 when she came out; she's in grade 9 now. The doctors blocked her puberty a few months into her transition so she wouldn't experience any further testosterone-fueled changes. This eased much of her discomfort. This past November, once she turned 14, she started taking estrogen, and the changes are now happening in the right direction. She's never been happier or more comfortable in her own skin. She also gives me these incredible teenage girl eye rolls and "Gaaaawwwwwwd, mom!" moments. Super impressive.

But the impact her transition has had didn't end with her. She's helped both her parents become better versions of themselves.

Because of Alexis' courage to live outwardly, my spouse was able to come out as a woman the following year, and our family now has two happy moms in it.

Zoe and me, Fall 2016 - Happy because we're not being eye-rolled at.

And because I had to explore my feelings about my wife Zoe's transition, I dug deep enough to outwardly admit what I never felt safe saying to anyone before: I'm a lesbian. Our family had a pretty big closet.

Throughout all these changes, our extended family, friends and community embraced us. We still live in the same house. My wife still has the same job. Our kids still go to the same schools. While we did lose a handful of people, most folks have been all, "Hey, you be you guys and I'll love you through it." No big deal.

If you're someone who doesn't like trans or gay people, you're probably throwing up into the nearest garbage can right now. "What? A trans kid?" *Barf* "And then the parent comes out as trans, too?" *Gag* "And then the other parent says she's a lesbian?" *Heave* "And people are OKAY WITH THIS?!" *Breathing into paper bag*

I'm sorry. That's probably a lot to handle all at once. Let's sit down together. Here, have a tissue. You pull it out of the box though, so I don't touch it and inadvertently smear my gay all over your face.

The fam celebrating a very gay Christmas

Listen, hater-friend, I know what this looks like to people who see it through a certain lens. It looks like we were overly-permissive parents who would have let a child who thought they were a unicorn live as a unicorn if they said so because we don't know how to say "no" and we're brainwashed by the left/the trans agenda/fake news/Satan/vaccines/MSG. And then we all caught whatever's on that tissue I just gave you and now our family has reached maximum levels of dirty, sinful queerness.

Let's just get this out of the way: If there was any possible way I could live as a unicorn, I would totally do that. But they're not real. LGBTQ people are real, however. We're almost as cool as unicorns, too. But we don't have that magnificent stabby horn, which is probably why you think you can be jerks and deny us rights.

Over the last three years, I've tried to figure out what your problem is. Why you gotta be like that? After reading a lot of your manifestos and troll-y twitter comments, I think I've come up with the answer:

Families like ours scare you because we represent the future.

And deep down, you know it.

Your attempts at making laws allowing companies to discriminate against gay people and states to dictate where trans people pee are like putting Band-Aids on a bursting dam. The glitter flood is coming, my throw-uppy friend, and you can either ride the wave or be buried in it.

All the positive stories out of there, like that of my daughter and the authenticity she's brought to our family, are the canaries in the bigot coalmine. It's time to get out of that dark hole and embrace the rainbow. Your way of thinking is old and dusty. It belongs in a museum. And one day, just like segregated water fountains, it will be in history books for young kids to read and say, "Wow, I can't believe people used to think like that."

I get your fear. When Alexis first told me, I was afraid, too. I was afraid of what supporting that change would look like. Three years later, I'm here to tell you it looks awesome. Awesome on her, on us, on our community.

Awesome.

No open pits to Hell. No demons running through the streets. Just a family living more authentically and with a lot more happiness. How is that bad or offensive or dangerous? How does the way my family lives affect the way your family lives?

(Coles notes: It doesn't. At all. Zero percent.)

And yet, you are afraid. Sure, you hide it behind anger or judgment and maybe throw a few bible verses in there for good measure. But it all comes down to fear and a lack of education on LGBTQ issues fueling that fear.

Look, if you and your family members are straight and cisgender (AKA not trans), then you will remain that way no matter who comes out around you. If you're not straight or cis, then stories like ours will make you think. That can be scary, but also good. (Trust me, I know.)

If you let a trans kid use the bathroom they're most comfortable in, it will not change anything for you, but will make a big difference for them. If you make a wedding cake for a lesbian couple, you're helping love flourish, and that's something every religion can agree is a good thing. (You can still make wedding cakes for straight people, too. )

Three years ago, my daughter taught me to embrace change. She's since taught millions of others through telling her story and allowing me to share it through my writing. We've spoken to live audiences ranging from 18 to 18,000, and our message is always the same: Find yourself. Be yourself. Love yourself. And let others do that, too.

If this brave girl can do it, we can all do it. Even you, if you step beyond your fear. We're happy to help you do that.

Happy third transiversary, Alexis. Thank you for helping us all learn to be better people. Your moms love you more than we probably show when you roll your eyes at us.

It's the news no parent wants to hear, and yet I am one of the most likely to hear it.

This past weekend, another trans child took his own life. Another mother's heart broke in the most unthinkable way. Another deep wound was carved into a family that will never fully heal.

Every time this happens - and it happens far too often - our global community of trans people and the affirming families who love them goes into mourning. We share the hurt, the anger, the shock of another young light gone dim. We reach out to the family, if we can. We change our profile pictures, use hashtags, and post statuses of compassion and awareness in solidarity.

And I don't know for sure, because I've never asked, but I bet a lot of parents do exactly what I do: check in on their own trans child. I will find her in her room, or meet her as she's coming home from school. I'll try to act casual, but she'll be able to read it all over me.

"What's wrong, mom?" she'll ask. "You look upset." I look at my mostly happy, mostly free of depression, mostly okay-these-days daughter. A world away from where she was before she came out and shortly thereafter. But as I'm learning, never really out of the woods.

"Just seeing how you're doing," I'll say, as casually as I can. "How are things? How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. Why?"

"Just because... Well... It's just... I just read about another kid who took their life. A trans kid."

"Yeah, me too. And I just want to know how you're doing, you know? You'd tell me if you were unhappy, right? We would find help together if you weren't?"

"Of course."

"Promise?"

"I promise," she'll say. And I will hug her, knowing full well there's another family aching to hold their child. It's so unfair and it's so scary. Because, really, it could be any of our children. It could be mine just as easily someone else's.

It could be mine. I, and just about every other parent of a trans child, carries this knowledge with them every day.

I get so angry when I see politicians drawing up bathroom bills and stalling human rights laws in the name of "safety." Want to talk safety? How about the attempted suicide rate in trans youth? In some places, it's as high as 50%.

The numbers are highest in youth who live with the following obstacles:

Families who will not affirm the youth's true gender ("Get over it! You're a boy! You were born with a penis. That makes you a boy.")

Communities that do not support their trans community members. ("Sorry, you can't join the boy's basketball team because you're not really a boy." "Dad, why are the neighbours still using my old name and calling me 'she', even though we've told them not to?")

Schools environments that will not embrace a child's true gender. ("They won't let me use the girl's bathroom." "The teacher won't respect my pronouns." "The kids are bullying me on my way to school every day.")

Political climates where trans people are treated as second class citizens. (Bathroom bills, religious freedom acts, countries where violence against trans people is not considered a hate crime, etc.)

Medical environments where youth cannot access the life-saving affirming care they need and are sometimes given conversion therapy instead, where they are forced to try and live as the person they're not.

In those environments, our children suffer. Imagine carrying the weight of not being seen for who you are every. single. day. As parents, we try. We love and nurture and affirm and support and advocate. And we wait for society to catch up.

Please, we beg, please catch up before it's too late. We can't do this alone.

Because as politicians posture righteously at desks with hateful bills before them, our children fall. As people who have likely never loved a trans person stand in front of cameras touting religious freedom and women's safety above all, we bury our kids.

So if we're talking safety, let's talk about how unsafe these laws are for our children.Let's talk about how people's ignorant comments all over the internet eat at our youth's self-esteem and erode their joy until there's nothing left. Let's talk about how schools and school boards will sometimes still turn a blind eye to harassment, or refuse to implement trans-inclusive policies because they fear backlash.

Want to talk religion? Every major religion in the world preaches peace and love for your fellow human being. Denying someone basic human rights and treating them as lesser beings goes directly against those teachings. What would Jesus do? Not that.

Safety? Religious freedom? No. This is oppression. This is hatred. And it's killing our children.

In the three years we've been on this journey with Alexis, I've watched too many children fall. I've lost count of how many, which really tells you how bad it is.

I know a lot of you read my blog for the happy stuff; you love seeing how my family of five is thriving with two trans people and a finally-out lesbian in it. But if I don't talk about this stuff, I'm not telling you the whole story. Because we are the fortunate ones. We are the ones who haven't lost someone - yet.

Yet.

Because it's the news no parent wants to hear, and yet I am one of the most likely to hear it.

We need to stop the hemorrhaging in this community. And the only way to stop it is to get help from outside of it. Help from YOU.

So if you want to save lives with us, here are some concrete steps to help:

Educate yourself. The best place to do that is direct from the source. Find some trans writers, bloggers, activists and politicians. Follow their feeds, read their books, and watch their videos. Nobody knows trans issues like trans people themselves.

Write to your political representatives. In Canada, Bill C-16, the trans rights bill, is being stalled by Conservative members of the senate. The bill could die in the senate if we don't urge it along. Please write your senator. If you want a form letter, you can find one here. In the US, new discriminatory laws are being drawn up and old ones are being repealed that protected trans youth and adults. Get active and let your representative know this is unacceptable.

Stop transphobia in action. You are likely in situations where people will say things they would never say around a trans person or their family member. If you hear hateful language, stand up where we cannot. Those ideas need to be challenged because they trickle into schools, workplaces and voting polls.

Be a safe space by being an ally. Once you've educated yourself, let people know you're a safe person. If you have an office or cubicle at work, put up a rainbow sticker. I have a rainbow sticker on my car. If I'm in a parking lot and someone is feeling unsafe, they know they can approach me. We have a sticker on our front door, letting everyone who visits know our home is welcoming. Some of my kids' friends have less-than-supportive parents; they know when they come through our door, we'll be using their proper name and pronouns and respecting their sexual orientation.

Plant the seed. Ask your child's school if they have a good policy in place for supporting trans students. Ask your doctor or child's pediatrician if they've received training in how to medically support trans people. Get people thinking about how they can be better allies.

Donate. Give to causes that fight for LGBTQ rights, big and small. There is benefit in supporting large organization as well as local ones. National and international ones help get laws passed, while local ones work on the ground to make our communities better. (Need some ideas? Here's a link to several in Canada, and some in America. I have not checked out every organization on these lists and therefore can't endorse them. You'll have to do your own research into them before making a donation.)

These are all things we can do to help save vulnerable kids. Let's stop feeling helpless and start doing something. Anything.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go check in with my daughter, and hug her fiercely.